The Book of the Dead.

Stones in my belly,
thorns on my skin,
the ants are crawling,
while the worms find their way in.
There is no resting,
I am being eaten alive,
the worms have teeth,
this bird no life.

Even the earth is biting,
it's bidding me to hell tonight,
the dirt is climbing,
there is no escape from death this time.
The sun is setting,
as the night calls forth,
my mind is shedding,
my heart is in reverse,
the air is leaving,
my time its turn.