virus

Your guns stop shooting
The last mag is gone
There should still be hope
But there is none

Up till now,
Pride was your sin
Now there is just
An ironic grin

You pull your knife,
You don't stand still
Because there are many
Left to be killed

Pain shoots through you
And wrath follows
You just want them pay
Much more today

Chill creeps up your spine
And all gets dark
This life of mine
I hope it left a mark