Must we pity the dead?
must we envy them?
a woman lies awake at night
brittle cold on a bed of stone
waiting waiting and
the stars shine down upon her
I sing a dream to the pit some nights
It knows death, knows horror
and i ask it each night
Must we fear death?
and it rumbles, low, in answer
looking up at the stars I watch them die
watch flares become supernova
dust flies through the thick of night
through the dead of night
like a ghost
laying a trail made of light
