seasons of decay... pass like cancer
this should be remission... fading chemical residue
Autumns wind and November bring
SCARS like graves in my skin
Last rites are whispered
with razors and pills
grief of my end
but this is my will
the coffin is carried
by Hooded monks in black
the death march is set
at a leaden funeral pace
they trudge through
falls fog
this MARCH
towards my ruin
a dying light
a final breath
autumn wind and November
BRING SCARS LIKE GRAVES IN MY SKIN
MARCH, MARCH, MARCH, MARCH
the casket is oak
bars... tarnished brass
pall bearers in cloaks
morbid burial mass
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