White is the kiss of winter’s breath,
Pale and frail in hues of death.
Black is the scent of foul decay,
Rotten infested bury all away.
A morbid soul a mental cage,
A tormented mind lost and disengaged.
Exhausted by the fickle finger of fate,
In her sleep the angel of death waits.
Round and round a carousel,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Say a prayer, come what must.