How should I mourn? Where shall I spill my grief?
My joy is all the past where colors glow.
This worldly life is but the color's thief
That tells me I to death shall shortly go.
What point is there in trying to stay around,
The body tiring, running out of steam,
The boiler cracked, the plumbing less than sound
A brain which slowly shrinks to wistful dreams?
I marvel how my humor lingers on
When all the world will only bid me gone.