When looking in the mirror I see gray:
A dull and loathesome form void of all hue.
My body has the constant sense of fey,
And nix of my blank frame is ever true.
This body, one day soon, will crumble down.
By year's eve it will be reduced to dust.
And even when my strangled voice does soune,
It will be too late for it too be sussed.
For countless moons I have been called a lie,
And told the choice is not for me to make.
But now, I come before myself to die.
Out from my ugly, moulting skin I shake.
When looking in the mirror I see her,
And she and I are both a wond'rous fleur.