My existence offending,
With every breath of smoke
Which is taken alone,
I march forward.
Fire erupts from the candles at the wake.
A man lies waste deep
Not ready to be interred.
Yet the birds still sing
O’er a body cut down
By Smith & Wesson’s
Newest thresher.
A miracle occurred today,
He has proven something,
If only for himself.
He has become an Ozymandias,
A king of the dead to be forgotten.
The works of his dying hands
Mattered only to his fleeing soul.
The triumphs of loves won
And the woes of years of defeat,
Are but memories forgotten.
Dcid Corvid 