I feel a world of silence

The moroseness of a sudden death within.

If I could help myself, indeed

I would have never begun to try and be.

I lie here, at the end of my decades

Forced from common reality

Paying the price of a failed life

Enduring the pain of a nonentity.

We end life as an empty picture book,

Read by faces with wan complexions

A story gradually wiped clean from the earth

And the minds from which it was birthed.

An thus, we must suffer the betrayal of mortality

To be cherished by many, yet in the end

Only able to leave hollowed memories

Buried behind the gates of the cemetery.