I fear life more than death,
Uncertain is life, certain is death.
All uncertainty until said final breath.
Clocked we are from moment of cot,
Till worm food we do but rot.
And stars we all return.
I wake and feel nothing on often a sunny morn,
Withdrawn, hollow, a face of sorrow and forlorn.
I am empty, collection tin empty.
Dead as January, outlook bleak,
If I was weather, cover you would seek,
To ride out my lingering storm.
No smile to crack, against the cracking curtain dawn.
With my razor tongue I deliver my razor scorn,
And slice my smile away.
“Close the book” they say, turn the page,
I was a different man, a different age.
I wrote of it once, my bastard page.
Wasted all, onto deaf ears their wisdom did fall,
And crash their wise words, laid broken upon the floor.
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