A Funeral March

All observe the corpse of what was once a man
Those closest shed tears of little sympathetic value
Like the ravens gathering upon the deceased
To harvest the possessions which they seek

He is safe now, he is finally free from himself
No more can he watch his life slip away
and still awake to wear the mask of pretence
His friends wish they could see him now

Soon the decay will steal all sentimental stares
Without the will to care, he was born to die
They will forget about him very soon
Without a thought of why he lying there before them
In the first place

The End

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