The Lyrical Lullaby of My Burial


I grow weary as the hour nears but we all must conquer our fears.
My affairs are in order but I count the seconds before I go.
Never old; in my chair deep into despair I hold, my dole.
Deaths cold, icy breath breathes down my neck.
The clock chimes three, the numerical Miracle,
The lyrical lullaby of my burial.
The tone I must atone.

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