Sitting in a room, all dark and horror,
with only this flickering old lamp
as I vent in this paper.

Toads are singing outside.
Night is here
the sun long bade farewell,
and set along the seams of the sky.

Little brown bats, owls, butterflies
all outside, playing,
keeping me company.
So is the moon and the stars.

I'm in a room with big windows facing north,
all wide open,
inviting the skippers to come play
with the dying lamp.

I hope they'll be first to feast on my flesh
for they were here,
next to my dying bed.

Twinkling little stars,
how I wonder what you are.
Help me write this dying note
for soon,
I'll be joining you up above.