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Death du Jour
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Weakmeat Vortex
When spoken wells the blood off the veins
Spilling, streaming, pouring to parch.
Indeceased, dreaming
Sever and decapitate limbs,
Way back is known
No sweaty bed,
no decaying coffin,
No fear,
no death,
no names,
no words,
no fear
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Where may I astray
Cured off the pain and life
Emotions calm,
Vacant of anger and regret without gazes of hope
Wasting facilitation
Wasting vexation.
Triumph is nothing
Being, won't decay
Suffer, away.
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