It's so cold here, is this what it's like,
to know I'm done and through, imminent end in sight?
I can't see, feeling this tingle in my fingertips,
Is this what it's like, to lose my grip?
A light is all I can find, where the cavity is my chest,
It speaks to me, what sound of trumpets is this?
I have love, even though I am solitudinous,
A father not by blood, but dirt and sess,
Explanations of my creation and cremation with same-substance, being loved unconditionaly,
My God no one would believe it, if not only here,
If he is really here, by my pectorial's symmetrical side,
I had no idea untill now, that when you come home; even God will cry.