My Hearse

Along comes my hearse, 



Marked with contempt, 



Silently about 



Its rotting descent.



Fickle the flame, 



As chill it brings;



Tired and weary 



As the raven sings. 



My time has come 



And bitter is the taste. 



My time, it seems, 



Is met with haste. 



So carry me softly 



With your gentle sway,



Back to the womb, 



In the earth I lay. 



Grieve me not, 



I have no remorse for I have arrived.