Bryson Andres - Bunker of Soule Feat. Allen So | Текст песни

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• Bunker of Soule Feat. Allen So

As I sit here in the bunker of my thoughts, I count the enormity of my choices that have been following me to the path of no return.
My unchecked thoughts which manifested into my awakening activities have dug a hole so big that it could swallow a city of angels.
God, I fear my luck has run out and I don't think I'm going to make it out of here alive. The bullets fly unseen, yet their sounds remind me of angry wasps coming for their intended prey.
Mortars which I tough were on the good side, my side, torn the flesh away from my comrades, without warning, making muscle into mush.
The dark, frumpy ground smells unlike anything that I've ever known before, felling this threatening moment so intense, terrified of death, pounding at the door way into my soul.
This may be my last stand, an unreached potential, stewing remnants in a half open coffin. I hear louder explosions going on around me.
Not my life ending in deluding frightening. I recalled my past a long time ago when I believed in kindness, compassion, sweetness, joy and fairness. Life was gentle, not harsh, and it was forgiving.
My soul conveyed a message of peace to itself, that my intelligence was only taking my imagination to the next level and anything was possible if I only believed it and wanted it deeply enough.
The ground moved sharply, appropriately from the storm of man's breath and inner conflict shaking me into back this reality.
God, will You not save me from my own choices which have gotten me to my wrong destination. If there is a miracle to be had in this great, big Universe, it's not too late to show me Your way.
I have dug a pit of unconscious complexities so large that even Einstein would find this problem provoking.
How did I end up like this? The though cycles, recycles through my mind defining the crimes of those somewhere outside of my vision.
Yet, if I truly quiet my mind and breathe deeply into my heart, even for a moment, calm prevails. I can hear their pain and fell their suffering moving though the Earth's crust, their yelling, pleading, calling out for different rimes and reasons, yet their meaning is all the same.
Their words are computer sounds, but somehow find their way through my bleeding ear drumbs.
"Please, someone help me!"
"Medic!!"
"Get the preacher man!"
I pray, only to hear the words "draw back" from someone of authority. But this too would be suicidal. I am hopelessly trapped.
A voice more reasonable succumbs: "Somehow, soldier you pitied yourself against the world and someway a shape performed". I don't remember doing so.
And if somehow this were true, how did I do it, why did I do it? It's not right to hurt yourself. Crazy people only do that. And we protect crazy people from hurting themselves, right? So I thought.
God, keep the last pieces of my sanity connected to my skull. A flare of light travels skyward: a light of hope or an invitation for more death?
I pull my hip lower than it possibly could go. Under the current circumstances I presume the latter. I wish I had the capacity to think differently, but basic training has removed my independence, most, if not all, my purity, and made me co-depended and regretfully soul.
Slowly the fragments of light bit at the veil of darkness as it drifted downward showing a stage of death I didn't want to look at.
My thoughts seemed so important and precious now. Why had it take me so long for me to ask suck simple questions my soul wanted to know?

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