Dirge

Here today, gone tomorrow Fate of those who breathe in air. The mind is sore; the heart is hollow Grey or not, damn the hair. How true it unveils, The world is birthed from the Death's marrow. Like every other day, He picks His scales Walking the earth, weighing His cargo? Whose pay is ultimate from the pains everlasting, and the vague that desecrates the joy promised to go lasting? For this pain, Just this pain, there is no gain.