All movement is accomplished in six stages,

And as I fade,
into the gray,
with a shimmering aura that spreads the light of day,
I weaken inside, becoming transparent,
losing all patterns, slowly seeming coherent,
no longer uniqe, I remain but a mark,
in the great pool of man, who is maker of dark.

So i stand near the edge, knowing through all,
this is only a phase, only loss of control.
should this moment of great triumph
be displayed as pure mad ?
should my mind feel mislead
for not wanting to be glad ?
is my wish to be gone, and seek for salvation
makes me needer of help on some faraway location ?
am I still bound to stand, though the eyes who can cure
ripple hate and not love when I sweep to their shore ?

Although music reliefes me,
I know I won't hear,
When I'll gaze to the sky,
And will not shed a tear.
I bid you farewell and to the future that could
Be a magical part of  a life that I screwed.
I continue to fade,
And the edge gets much nearer,
As I look one last time for my soul in the miror,
With an opened eyes leap I shall fall down the pit,
And the young light surrounding will be absorbing my hit.
 
and the seventh brings return.