The maggot-stained husk of a human nestled on my hand.
Whispered words of worry, and dauntless shades of grey.
And I bellow to the void, "Mother Mary may I be ******!"
and I swear to gods, this bit I remember to this very day
the wind spoke back, with a bitter, pain-soaked reply,
"My child, your time has come, now grow still and die."