When the well fall sick and the ill fall dead,
we shall tread whilst eternity passes on.
Yet it isn't a gift as to why we tread; it is a curse in which we suffer,
for while the Necromancer waltzes 'round our once common lives,
we just want to be happy.
Skimming the edges of Death's cloak with our fingertips,
we search for the cure to a heart turned to beating stone,
a soul encased in ice beneath a freezing tundra,
a body that time has forgotten over the ages.
Forever, we shall chase His coattails, with never-ending dreams
of collapsing into the sleepy Earth we have drifted over for generations.
And so, amidst our forever, we desperately pray to ourselves-
for Who else are immortals to pray to?-,
hoping for the day that our hearts stop beating,
because even just once to die would be enough.