Wonder is ripe for I know not what is beyond
The curve in the road which beckons me.
I stop and view my surroundings and laugh
For a change is definitely required.
My feet are encrusted in mud
My soul buried in the mire.
Beyond the window, the cold, black snow of Death
Buries my existance in the darkness of lies
Which are fruitfully abounding among
My fellow sinners in the valley.
Hark! For a voice calls forth from the murk of my mind,
A music who speaks to my inner soul,
Explaining to me the mistakes I have made
By forcing the jilted lover to jealousy with presence of jade.
A door opens and a figure beckons
And I follow undecidedly sure.
He is a Reaper of troubles, sadness and sorrow,
He asks me why my eyes are closed.
I struggle to answer but no words come,
While rats battle amongst themselves over
Dead, rotting corpses filled
With the disease of man.