We Refine the Edges of Death

I'm feeling cold in this room locked for the tomb that has already claimed my soul. Where in the sun we have shown our self the true self of a well preserved sacrament. I watched the clock count down the days of my final judgment. Called them back and said I couldn't make it today, but they're still going to meet without me. No final words to the truth of what we've become. I probably should have sent one last cry, a final plea for a resting peace to sweetly roll over me but it's too late to get it back now. I know there's a place where they pace to the sound of a pulsing heart. It makes you feel alive, filled with the spirit of beautiful princesses in pure white dresses. Where the pure go to gloat over the poor souls that have lost their light and I am just one of the millions sitting against the wall missing out on all the refinement of the song. There were glistening angels floating near the ceiling, I was too afraid to look up and see myself in someone else's shadow. So I stared at the floor; met the coward's end with neck drawn down bowing before my curtain call. I was too scared, too afraid to stand up once again. My eyes flicker and my hand shakes, a last clutching breath and then I fell through the floor and found myself buried with all my skeletons. Where men reap what they sew.