Not the kind you eat,

Get high & examine your feet,

Not the kind you order on your pizza,

From this one you will retreat…

Firestorm does follow,

Your cheeks become hollow,

No longer do you stand,

Afterwards you are just a pile of sand…

Of this not even Nature can compare,

Nothing done can help you to prepare,

Does not matter if one is poor or a millionaire,

Just hope all in order are your affairs…

The sun blotted out no longer to shine,

The temperature dropping on a fast decline,

This is the time if you still have the spine,

To take your own life, to meet the divine…

            © ed ~ 10/5/05