Sawdust in the air

I was sawing some planks into pieces today, and this started playing in my head to the tune of Walking in the air, composed by Howard Blake.

 

Sawdust in the air

Floating in the clear, blue sky

My lungs are full of it, as well as are my eyes

 

I already lost my sight

And it burns like hell, it’s true

The sky, it now looks brown, for me not perfect blue

 

The fungi and the mold

Have found their brand new home in me

Took over everything, from forehead to my knee

 

I cough blood in the night and I scratch my eyes

My throat is dry, my sheets are red, a wonderful surprise

 

Sawdust in the air

My head feels so very light

The noises far away, the lamps always so bright

 

The doctors say, it’s too late, what happens now, we know

I don’t believe, this is real, it can’t be my time yet to go

 

Sawdust in the air

Floating in the clear, blue sky

Like the sawdust did for me, the clouds are passing by

Memories of my death

I can remember that I was held under

Long enough for my lungs to tear themselves asunder.

I can remember trying to fight back,

Without any breath, my body just a sack.

I can remember that I screamed and screamed,

Screamed so long I thought I dreamed

The time without screaming, the drowning and pain,

Screamed until I broke, I was no longer sane.

Then, if I’m right, I think I died,

I… I think I actually died.

If I died… Then am I a ghost?

Doomed to wander this bleak coast.

I remember my death. What now?

I can’t stay, I must move on? But how?

Chopping block

We’re all waiting for our turn on the block,

My family is gone and I can hear the clock.

The executioner chops us up one by one

We’re waiting in a pile, burned by the sun.

We scream for mercy but the hangman can’t hear

The pitch of our screams too high for his ear.

I see an opening and I flee, I flee!

Stumble on the bodies of the mass around me.

The hangman sees me and chooses me next

I can’t resist, it’s like I were hexed.

Sets me on the block, prepares his ax,

I pass out and my body does relax.

The hangman chops and I am no more,

Next one to the block, an endless chore.

 

In the head of the hangman at that time:

“Oak is hard, my ax is past its prime.”

 

One gets funny ideas when chopping firewood, as there’s quite a lot of time to think while axing stuff.