A Prayer from a Deathbed

 

The murdered sun leaves our accursed sky

To makes its mark. As I set, so shall I.

 

Even as I cease to be

I beg you, while you can, be as you are:

You will miss it when, at your brief hour,

Both this and you are gone.

 

The last dance, at the floor-stained, teary

Death of the party, is always a slow one.

 

So while the music plays, dance playfully,

For there’ll be quiet enough once this is done.

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