What will be left of me after I depart?
Will it be significant, or just a carcass?

Before I shuffle off, what will I impart?
Will I utter a final statement of auspice?

Slipping through my hands
like the sand in an hour glass.
Why does it not stop?

A whole entire person reduced
To some ashes and a wooden cross.
On the ditch of the highway that their car was seduced
Their false headstone covered in moss.

Imagine the guilt in the heart of the alcoholic.
The pain eating away at them,
and the echoed courtroom shouts of the vitriolic.
What they cause, they become.