Everything in turn will pass,

whether it be first or last,

my mind a blank,

my life at end.

How much longer can I play pretend?

I cannot see much out side of this glass,

here, nothing is first or last,

the empty shell of a thrice dead life,

cut into peices with a bone knife.

Steel and Bone,

to wither away.

Passing and massing

each and every day.

Everything in turn will pass,

for whether it be first or last.

Everything in time will pass.

Until, everything we know.

Is Past.