One Hundred and Twenty Three

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.
However the sky grows dark with invitation cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flagstaff
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.
Non timor mortis conturbat me. 

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs.
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites
The costly aversion of the eyes from death
Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs.
Non timor mortis conturbat me.