Why, oh why
Must we try not to die
When it is the most natural end?
Should it not be so bad
Or perhaps not as grand
As some do thus pretend?
With soul unbound,
No solace to be found,
Nothing to tether us here,
Seems right to go
As the ravens crow
And lie upon the bier.
As others move on
And see the next dawn,
Our hearts will ache no more.
As the pumping stills
And the body chills,
We liken to a Winter’s hoar.
When all else is done
And no warmth from the sun
Can penetrate our skin,
Our faces hollow
As we sink into wallow,
Left behind is a ghastly grin.
Seems right to die
When no future lies
And give up this grand masquerade.
What else is left
When a soul’s bereft
‘Cept to lie beneath the spade?
prongs 