Autogynephilically projected lusting

A coffin too fresh to have dust 

All gears too busy tearing into rust

Decadent decaying

mechanical decalogue

Another speck of sand next to trillions of shooting stars

always out of grasp

Out of touch,

not out of sight--

never out of mind:

It's mental landmines,

Crutches for valentines.

All the drugs in this world will still bring you to a flatline

Death is worse,

when it's in front of your eyes

Inevitably,

You're born only to die 

Such is the only kept promise