We are the virus,
The disease ridden art of perfection,
eroded by a cancerous cyst,
turned a whiter shade of pale,
paper thin beauty in a beholders eye,
stifled laughs through blackened lungs,
drip fed tears through a wrinkled skin,
we see our dust start to fall,
prelude turns to interlude,
our truth and destiny,
the moth eaten robes of a transient soul.