The sickness within, queasiness? Fear?
The worries I face, they make me feel queer.
The excitement it brings, for better or worse,
The lines I have practiced and all I’ll rehearse.
Whenever I saw her I was filled with joy
Until I remember it was all a ploy,
By the master of all, Death.
I see him, I feel his presence, all around,
In the final moment's, in her last breath,
He torments me with her body in the ground.
Everyday I visit, everyday I cry,
Always asking myself, “why”.
While death laughs with every boast,
It is in these moments that I need her most.