We are all dead men walking,
Trudging to the end of time,
Going through meaningless lives, half lives
Morbid, morose, melancholy.
Through the annals of the rose,
We come forth like the autumn winds,
We are ingrained in the ways of life,
Sickness and sorrow and love abound.
Then into the world we are cast,
Our first breath like a sigh of despair,
How insignificant, how small
How ridiculous our morrow.
Time waits for no one,
It shall cradle you to death,
For what is worth living ,
If you cannot die?