Some of us accept death . . .
. . . sometimes in faith . . .
. . . sometimes in despair.
But some refuse to die.
That’s where we come in.
A shallow grave's awaiting me when they take me from this tree— no prayers will be said over that grim bed— So all men die, even I . . .
The wanderer told many a wonderful tale of dragons and kings and duels, but he was a liar. I know, everyone embellishes a story; that’s not what I mean. He’s a liar because he left something out. One story, my story. He doesn’t forget me, he hides me. I’m there in all of his tales, a shadow he refuses to see.
Tale Told 