No Stain of the Sun

The end can be seen through the beginning of cold.

Stealing the light that sits in the sky
and ignoring the dreams that drown his blue eyes.
It gathers too quickly, and when all is said and done;
the windows turn black with no stain of the sun.

So why try to believe, when he hasn't the chance.
The poor man lies cold, suffering death's trance.
The flies are flying higher, and all is becoming still.
If the darkness is to diminish, nothing will be revealed.

The creature that stirs is starting to run,
in search of the path, that escapes the black sun.
Soon he will fall, and he won't make it far.
As his heart begins to sink, the dirt turns to tar

There is too much pain,
and there is too much wrong.
Is there anywhere else that this hell can belong?
It is flooding our streets,
and it is filling our guns.
How can we leave when there is nowhere to run?