life wasted betwixt lips in the form of a sigh
their fatal last breath stands them with the rest
and as their vital pump stops;
silence bequeaths their breast
so shadows flee from the obsidian edge of reality
this haunted place is just a land of vacant memories
Hollowed out shells; husks of what no longer remain
contortions of the wood - knots against the grain
acquiescence of what was - and what no longer will be
experience the truth of what none of you see...
life is naught but a terminal disease
life is naught...but a terminal disease
