The wet bandit fighting and killing Satan My creation,
is it real?
Superstition,
there's a feel.
Hypersensing details falling all between the lines,
thinking back I wonder if I really don't have time.

Soon I'm coming home,
a vessel all my own,
to attain eternal life,
into the light.

[I tore off my face,
I don't want it back,
do not let me see it,
it will fade to black.]

I'm waiting,
still breathing,
no longer worth deceiving.

This flesh decaying but my,
heart's,
still,
beating.

This goes,
f