You would think death had better taste in furniture,
Bring yellow floral arrangements,
White cushions that reflected more light than a bald man's forehead,
One would think his grand mother came over and ordered him to clean his room,
The letter had come in "Replacement needed",
I started at the devils read with a sinister smile,
The smell of infants whose feet have never touched the starting line,
And the ashes of a thousand who were too old to tell him no,
He had lost his touch,
Before one could've felt the cold from his breathe as he exhaled,
Now his exhales are labeled global warming,
It's sickening,
The dead ask for cold,
Not a repeat of their past life,
His black good isn't black anymore,
To call it black would be to call pink crimson,
I seemed to scare him,
Whatever essence of torment his existence latched on to,
Whatever darkness still surrounded his now mortal appearance begged me to relive them of this parasite who now was depending on them for survival,
They were mine now,
But I yearned for that one piece of darkness that allowed him to be death and kept him away from humanity.
