My spirit is eaten away by gangrene from the fangs of wolves.
A stake is driven into my heart of diminshed hope.
My expectations slip away like quicksilver.
You are the rabble anticipating my execution.
Do you see the malaise that grips me in its deadly vice?
Are my eyes like those of a child going into the dark?
Is it death I fear?
Or, the marriage of   life and death in the moment called tommorrow ?