Poetry

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In the grand scheme, you never get old,
for the soul's immortal, it has been told.
So you never get closer, too never being,
and eternity, are you assured of seeing.
But the view you have, must you choose,
long before, your last breathe you use.
For no rest for the lost, shall the grave bring,
just the eternal pain, of a terrible sting.
In constant agony, that shall never cease,
truly unto the wicked, will there be no peace.
And any bit of comfort, shall none provide,
for no ones waiting, with arms open wide.
And as more and more terrors, begin unveiling,
shall the horror grow, causing much wailing.
For when it sinks in, oh, will your tears pour,
but nobody's there, too answer anymore.
And each and every moment, will be the same,
and no one but yourself, will you have to blame.

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