Splitting hairs, and grasping straws as we fail
Once again, grabbing air as we’re flailing
Helplessly, as we cling onto the railing,
Only to slip back to floorboards so frail
As planks of reason break through, and in vain,
Search with matches through the dark pitch of death.
Our funerals compensate the bereft!
Bleach away the blood left with clean, white stains.
Horrors of masquerades that defines us,
As we hide our true selves from the rest again.
Once the Grave swallows us, what’s left to gain?
Our prestige, our frugality, is crushed.
Nothing more springs fear than one nailed pine box.