Oaken

Forever to burn within this coil of marrow and skin
Repulsive splendor given breath and motion as wind to wing
Flesh animate foul, yielding 'neath the arcing scythe of Time
May its incision be true and obscure what life defines

As it was at the onset 
So shall it be at our hauling
All hail the pale when Moros comes calling
A most blackened surety whose law rings enthralling
The eternal descent in which we never cease falling

Were we ever meant to be immortal?
Life's brevity met through the damnedest of portals
Could we have misconstrued a vile stretch that's cruel at best?
Creation hasn't ceased unreeling
As much as we have excised feeling
The illness 
The ironies
The heartaches that remain
The stillness 
The tiring
The irrevocable stains
The virulent 
The monstrous
And all herein slain

The ongoing failures, absolved of mere pleasure 
I do renounce the tastes that so long had me tethered
So contort thine threads amid these withered limbs
A dying mold that only stillness will win
And halt sunlit hope with heresies of opened skin

Age itself will claim no dominion
No God, Devil, or Will could steer this lost minion
Of a life that is lost; its meaning annulled
The darkness strides onward as our straws are still pulled
Who will be the next to falter?
The destroyer, accuser, or incestous Father?
Do you wield the courage to embrace such dire certainty?

Demise is the utmost and paramount guarantee
This includes the likes of both they and we
And if we would so wish to hone and rehearse,
To quench eldest maws of a bottomless thirst
Set your best foot forward
And blade to veins accursed
So fearlessly denounce the flesh 
And boldly oust yourself first

We've no time to wait 
The Reaper now rides upon sands of the late
Beaten to the strangle of a gallow rope's grip
Pray your aim be true, that your bullet shan't miss...

Excised from equations of all this existence
Struck from its form like a growing malignace 
Seduced by the crave to have nothing remain
Swept six feet below into this monolithic grave
And if you hold an ear to its abyssous soils
You'll hear the fallen not weeping, but laughing
All the years of trial and toil
Mean naught now as they sleep 
Their triumphs, endeavors, their breathing room foiled
As above we drift grasping
Our sanity collapsing 
At how such atrocities could befall such good a soul
That is but one within vast skeletal seas below

"Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony..."