P is for Purgatory

This was never the scenario...  
Was never the obvious option...  
And I was wrong; so wrong  
The somatic has gone, but I live on...  
And on, and on, and on, and on  
I always thought that the end was the end  
No ifs, no buts, no maybes  
This wasn't plan A,B or C  
Because this is plan P, and P is for Purgatory  
And this is my diary, the diary of a dead man  
Trapped and alone; alone with the P plan  
 
The first day is the second day...  
And the third day and the last day  
And the last day is every day  
There're no blue skies; no sun or stars bright  
Only a midwinter grey of a permanent twilight  
And the grey is grizzly, it's murky mizzly  
With a glutinous, dense, fog; sometimes it's thinner  
And when it's thinner I see the others who are here or there  
Shadowy faceless shapes, wandering where?  
And then it thickens again and I see naught  
That's when I can taste the acidic mizzle  
With a corrosive stench so foul I can hear it fizzle  
And the drizzle fizzles on my tongue  
But I cannot spit; I have to taste the taste  
Have to smell the smell of the septic waste  
 
I've been here since D day; death day  
Which is today, yesterday and every day  
Because every day is the first day and the last day  
And today there's an ethereal choir of lost souls weeping  
I can hear my weeping; feel my salty tears  
And feel my hunger pangs that leave me with a permanent yearning  
And the cold's so pervading that I feel a contradictory burning  
H might be for Heaven or Hell, but P is for Purgatory  
And I'm trapped and alone in this abstract absurdity  
All the days of the past have passed  
And this day today is the very last  
But the last day is also the first day  
And the first day is every day  
And this is my diary, the diary of a dead man  
It was never A, B or C, it was always the P plan  
 
Each step I take is a step too far  
As I tread the mossy mulch of a viscous bog  
But I can't stop, never stop, never stand still  
Never feel the comfort of warmth, only a churning chill  
And so I wander and I wander, in meandering circles?  
Each cloying step is a slog  
And atop of the bog is the fog  
And the fog is what I inhale  
And is my permanent death shroud veil  
I can hear myself weeping; feel my salty tears  
That I've never shed and have shed for years  
This was never the scenario...  
Never the obvious option...  
But I was wrong; so wrong, as I wander nowhere  
But nowhere is somewhere  
And somewhere is everywhere  
And everywhere is here  
And there's no escaping from this bewildering absurdity  
This is no way station, this place of Purgatory  
This is the end or the start and the diary of a dead man  
There was no A, B or C, for me it was always the P plan  
This is the first day and the second day...  
And the third day and the last day  
And the last day is every day...  
And every day is today  
And today I'm in Purgatory; P is for Purgatory