See man, and see his weakness.

Just a little something more.

As the Earth, and her clouds, and her people slowly rot away,
man will shout and blame his failling vision
on the presence of a constant sun.

And as he falls apart,
little fragments at a time,
as the little singes upon the hems of his cloth,
upon him,
ignite to burn him slowly…
And as his face runs with the drops of his youth,
drops which now run from him
and drip like melted wax and thus,
alter his mask and
reveal to him his only ugliness.
He’ll know the truth
and then all he may do is drink,
until he’s drunk enough
to curse himself for
never truely knowing grace.

And of all these thoughts
he’ll part unthunk,
and dig his grave
deep,
two extra feet…


Just so he’s further from this Hell,
because every wise-man knows
Hell is what we’ve created
at sea-level.