A thread of vulger lines,
A simple spread of un-treatable disease.
A lonley old widow waiting patiently for death,
but death is busy working with a man fresh into meth.
The coffee drips evermore,
And the sore rubbing of the slow ticks of time.
The crow sits on the tomb,
as the fetus dies slowly within the womb.
Teachings of the old testiment wither away,
as the grey sky turns a bright orange.
The pianist plays a minuet for death,
but death is busy giving cancer to young
And the world just moves on its own.
Without greif or care for the sorrowful beings.
And the wolf catches the pungent scent of suicide in the wind.