Find a splinter in your eye, when you die; just a slice
slithers deep inside your mind, where it pries, makes a find.
From the ashes pulls your soul, black like coal; it is broke
and the edges make a hole, empty zone, nothing left.
The splinter then begins its work.
With twitching blades and claws it burns,
tears into soul and steals its worth,
ripping through the spirit's life
The angels come. They want your soul.
There is none. The angels go.
The demons come. They want it too.
The demons leave. The splinter laughs.
Soon your history will leave, gone to worlds of lost belief.
When you think of family, know that they won't even grieve.
Your old friends will never weep, it will not disturb their sleep.
They are lost in other things, they know not yet the splinter.