From ten feet up I hang
the dewy fields before my eyes
encompassed by the new day's sun
The great white oak tree at my back

Faces flash through my mind
pleasant memories of times past
what have I done, where did I go wrong
These thoughts mean nothing now

It is too late to reminisce, as with breath
life is fleeting, choked by this self-induced infliction
Darkness soon overtakes the field and morning sun
until all that remains is a monument of self-hatred