Bylnoph

Having thoughts of the deceased is fucking horrible.
Blinding light and unbearable darkness both cover me.
It is not only the fact that I am dead to all, but the fact that
I am becoming dead to myself.
My tough skin I have constructed, is being worn by another now.
It never seemed to phase me when the gods had warned me,
When they told me this day would come sooner than I expected.
Fuck it, I can spit in the face of death.
Just give me a chance.
but who am I to speak?