This is what happens

This is what happens, just as death is nigh.

Your ears will tingle; fingers start to scream.

For me, my blood will take shape in the steam—

The scythes swoosh by as quiet as a sigh.

This is what happens, just as death is nigh.

Each scar you made will push apart its seam.

Cold mists unravel; things not what they seem.

Repelled, the vomit of your twenty lies:

This is what happens, just as death is nigh.

Bells toll. Dies iræ, dies illa,

Solvet sæclum et favilla… Afar

I hear the serpent. Roses wilt. And each

And every soul flies farther out of reach.

Hush, death is nigh—is that a newborn’s cry?

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