What an utter foil,
To work and toil,
Come the end, to spoil,
Learn that parfum’s oil,
Is just soil.
Human scent you seek comes from flowers,
Forth from earth, Hand of a higher power.
Where are you going human with your hefty chest,
Vacuum of emptiness.
Where with your haughty disdain,
For deaths unbeatable reign.
Where are you going human unable to recognise,
That the frivolities of the world are all but lies.
Where are you going in all your decoration,
Self love, self help, self infatuation.
Where but return back to the earth,
And be consumed by maggots, turn to dirt.