The truly honest are the most brave.
They have us beat, with nothing to show for it.
These pumped up hearts always try and
escape. We always die, die, die.

Those unable to preach the only word they know.
Those unwritten notes live in our hearts;
never on paper: That is the only death
that leaves an unwilling imprint in our souls.

Of course, death does not care for us.
It waits, like a statue waiting for its artist to return.
Patiently, hopeful that this night the moon forgets
to shine as bright as suicide in July.

Death, in all its unknown forms;
is in her voice, in his unanswered request for
another chance. That is the death I know.
It is the one that needs to repent.

Death is the transformation that will not disappoint.
It is clock work, from boy to man.
Girl to woman:
It is puberty at fifteen.