The problem with creation is it comes from destruction
One life created is only another destroyed

See, a delicately engraved chest is just a gutted tree
Like diamond rings are just contemporary slave drivers

Long and lovely road trips are but poisonous gases
Like gourmet dinners are pesticides and animal bones

These books and beautiful words are murdered worlds
(And a poem is just a dead part of the soul)

But I guess that's just for cynics
I guess the darkness doesn't haunt us all
(And it isn't always the Circle of Death that revolves)

O, you blessed creatures, do you really mean to say
You aren't at all plagued by the morbid fall?