I’ve got many problems, but to name a few:

Nothing I do brings back the view.

I simply run at the sound of the gun and cower in fear before the end is near.

Some say I flew too close to the sun but others say I was just dumb.

Voices make their claim and it’s always the same.

Fact versus fiction but why so much friction.

Lights flash before my eyes at least there’s still some surprise.

How did it get like this? Where is the door? Here I was thinking that we’d won the war.

I guess I’ll retire for now my words, tired and cold, tomorrow I’ll be just as old.