Ernest, *youare the embodiment of every melancholic song, playing in the rooms of aching souls with broken hearts.
You are the dark sky that the sun has abandoned; the wrinkled and weathered body that youth forgot.
Despondently, you sit, Day-after-day, in that beige, aged lounge chair-- (which just like you, has seen better days) rising from the dead, only to scowl about the ways in which your body has failed you.
"Six months to live." "Six months to live." "Six months to live."
Six months to live* but you're already gone and I can’t bring you back.