I'll be robbed of sleep by the same criminal who only knows of uncertainty
but of what?
my only possessions are cold hands and tired eyes
or should I say wretched cartilage and empty sockets full of writhing maggots?
but it's all self-inclined
I am my own gravedigger

withered and wretched
broken at the wrist
the skin were his watch lie was pale
the rest was sun kissed

he needed to hang his head
for he was out of breath
the only time being told here
was ticking towards his death

I have this rose in my hand
that I carry wherever I wander
I drag my feet along the thorns
and feel long intervals of sonder
the thorns are sticking into my flesh;
the blood seeping from it is fresh
for Death I keep growing fonder