Life will go on even after you're dead.
Three months of mourning, a lifetime of dread.
Now a frail, withered husk, that's all that's left.
You're gone and you'll never come back.
Just a futile climb to be stripped down and fucked.
No tears to hold back.
No shaking hands.
Just cold and abrupt.
No wavering guilt.
Just a bed and some pills.
Just a yawn and a shrug, nonchalance at best.
No fire, no light, no rebirth or journey.
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