When are you going to die?

I see my life in tatters, strewn around.

Falling down, each part animating itself

Into a queer little form;

Scampering away, looking around;

Amid the vast fabric of space and time,

Hardly recognizing their master,

And instantly gobbled up by a black-hole;

But not before squeaking a metallic cry:

When are you going to die?

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