Death Of The Self

As darkness creeps,
It all seems bleak,
A time where no one sleeps,
And all life fleets.

That life is old,
This soul so cold,
Times destination bold,
Leave the hand and fold.

It's over shortly, don't despair,
The bodies quiet, lungs void of air,
The hearts dies out, no tick or care,
The soul falls next, to leave a shell; it's fair

But as it fades to black,
There'll be no coming back,
For everything we lack,
Has gone, you can't look back.

The tortured soul writes of old,
Of horrors truly tasted,
Pain and time are melding,
And nothing can ever help it.