That deep dark smell of the box where I lay
Is almost enough to cover my scent,
The stench of maturity and decay,
Of a life that isn't given but lent.
That languish of ivory purity,
Death has indeed quenched thy cheeks, Juliet.
Age always fades into obscurity,
As posterity begins to forget.
Pushing daisies that will soon themselves die,
"Ash into ash into ash!" calls the world!
And we waste our life's time, stopping to cry,
As the life and death become mixed and swirled.
I lay in this box neither warm nor cold,
Because Life is young, but death: death is old. 

The End

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