little box of death
you material thing
carved out of wood
dyed with black ink
inside your depths you held the cure
for life and all its suffering
the poison that you once secured
removed upon your offering
you laid in wait... collected dust
that settled between your bones
while skeletons called out to lure
a sick man to their catacombs
but even in his weakness
he found his will to live
he doesn't need to partake of
the things you have to give
he said it's hard to look at you
he's given you to me
I'll dust you off and find someone
who doesn't know your history
'cause if I kept you in my room
you might just start to sing
a siren of the after-life
whose song is a way out of being
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