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seasons of decay... pass like cancer

this should be remission... fading chemical residue

Autumns wind and November bring

SCARS like graves in my skin

Last rites are whispered

with razors and pills

grief of my end

but this is my will

the coffin is carried

by Hooded monks in black

the death march is set

at a leaden funeral pace

they trudge through

falls fog

this MARCH

towards my ruin

a dying light

a final breath

autumn wind and November

BRING SCARS LIKE GRAVES IN MY SKIN

MARCH, MARCH, MARCH, MARCH

the casket is oak

bars... tarnished brass

pall bearers in cloaks

morbid burial mass