by: William A. Marshall

Don’t dress me up,
All neat and strapped tense,
That costume for my demise,
Does not make sense.
My last gulp was taken,
Zigzagging down the hall,
Gathered about the puzzle,
Sheep held up the wall.
Why be sharp now?

It was too late.
It was too late.

That room so bare,
The look of the other - so ornate.
Traditional, cold, and vague,
My train seemed too quick,
Dazed and completely plagued,  
There was time, but not for me,

Our time comes then goes.
Our time comes then goes.

They say the gas burns and stinks,
That furnace so boiling white,
Orange coals and turbulence,
My bone scattered fight,  
I got off that train with no despair,
My hands reached glories gate,
So then wait for the wind,
Dusk swollen and gray,
Then heave me up high,
So my ashes can play.