Revolver

If I wither away with every last fall of the autumn leaves    
I will come back with winter to see no change
In the metamorphosis of no evolution    
The after burn jejune escalading to nowhere    
Putrid smell concentrated of the platitude    
We are still in our mother's womb    
Trying to envisage utopia, but living a life of decadence    
Cradled with fluids that support us    
Dependent, waiting to be fed    
   
I hate the smell of the swamp, full of dead hope    
Every day it thickens, altering nothing    
Forgotten as the elixirs before it    
Spitted out as sputum by the ones on the throne    
They are playing psychopaths to our form    
   
If I die today, it will be my fall    
But tomorrow is today    
Immortal stuck on the lone brick mind    
Nothing to be noticed    
A mutation that has been removed    
   
Immature, their sense of state    
Greedy minds, they populate    
A never ending replication    
A defect with no cure    
Always change being a no    
Déjà vu will be the eyes worst foe.