A Knowing Secret; No, A Growing Regret

Whilst this knowing breath, creeping upon

That knowing death, is but the thought of Us

Is, but the thought of Us

Is less than worthy of Us to imagine.

And so he scurries

Away, and tomorrow will be another

Like the brothers he left in May, would it matter?

Or would it, "matter",

If it is something that is here

Start to decay before we could put it to

Resting place

And tomorrow, it's the thought of Us

And the thought of Us

Is less than worthy of Us to imagine

And to imagine

Is just to decay.