Am I more than this flesh
And all its pain
Or will it wither and vanish
Taking all trace of what I was?
Is this pain, this sorrow, this rage
The true me?
Am I nothing more than bile and blood,
Curses and cries?
Is there not one piece of the ethereal,
Some shred of the eternal in me?
Something of hope, of dreams,
Something free and spiritual?
Will nothing survive my demise?
Or as the darkness takes me
It takes me utterly
And my spark does sputter
Before it is spent
On as worthless a life
As mine.

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