This is her farewell.


Her, mere mortal, pinned against those lovely lovely bones...

And she didn't think, the dark dirt would feel so... warm

against bruised skin that reeks of uninvited atrophy

that hangs like a mantle, on a wall, in some home..


And she'd like to think of herself so worthy

that maybe she'd live long enough...

To hunt the hunter and hang his head on a wall...


And in that darkness she remembered breath

and solitude's impassive purveyor


But I'm not ready, I'm not ready...


But don't you know lovely human, so certain of your demise

what is death to the dead, but another rising tide?


Wake up...