Long, I've been told, when man and woman grow old
Slowly the veil severs from this world and the other
When it comes to pass, when my flesh is undressed
Then, will my hunger be considered the past?

Is it not effortless, when flesh knits together
Nor is it not conscious to rip apart another
Infecting these wounds with our foul dripping tongues?

When my words are done, and my body lies still
All-together the picture of nothing, my skin
Whom is suitable to taste my failure then?

Have I failed myself in this life, the former, the next?
Will it all be the same; sub-conscious regret?

There's nothing left for the world to consume
Merely lifeless palor, does the broken rose bloom?

When that cold hand lays itself on my brow
It will be too late, to think 'what now?'