It doesn't matter how pretty your grave is. It doesn't matter that you have more flowers atop your stone. It does not matter that the words carved into rock are more beautiful than anything that has spilled from my mouth. Your attempts to be better even after death are futile, worthless.
Because you, even you, are six feet under packed, filthy dirt. You, even you, are in a nailed shut box (no matter how pretty and gold encrusted).
Your once pristine flesh is food for the worms and the flames of hellfire are licking at your soul.
You were never greater than me. You, even you.
May 14, 2014 6:41pm
YOU ARE READING
Prose
RandomI write things and like other quotes and I feel like saving them so :) Feedback is always appreciated!
