Blackness envelops the hearts of the willing
and she stumbles along life like a broken-winged bird.
He gulps breath in with every beat of her heart -
that which sputters to a halting finale.

Without a fantasy or care in the head,
are we better off dead?

Silence amazes the heart of the broken
and the quiet is the final jab in
to the remaining hopeless heartbeat.
He shudders under the pressure of her sins.

Without a fantasy or love in our head,
are we better off dead?

Shovels bury things deeper than the dearly beloveds.
and the six feet down is multiplied.
His breaths have to dig deeper,
to find the beat they exist by.

Down into the grave they both go.

Without a fantasy or her in his head,
he knows he is better off dead.