Death is a sonnet, Viable sunrise in heaven net Of lyrics and pain, Alas no rhyme is a torment, Yet we strike ourselves with a soul stain.. Charcoal dot on a fingerprint route, Towards love and bliss, We cut our root , From any senses... For now only we are dead, Is it a sparkle? Where's my head? Someone's hit casual darkroom, Alas, dark matter is finally fed.