You are just a prop in this play of life.  You will decay.
Your mind will rot as your thoughts turn to smoke and ash so grey.
Your teeth will grind your words to dust and forever trap them in a cave.
Your couplets and rhymes will all bleed from time, forever lost in but one somber day.
That which you wish to project yet only protect will come from another and seem but a jest.
And though hope smiles and interjects, you'll always feel that others write it best.