trees falling in a
barren forest
the only people to hear are
six feet under
the decaying world
- a fragment of what it once was
and never will be again -
both frightens and
exhilarates.
you fear the man with the gun, but
welcome the man with the
poorly hidden
bloodstained teeth.
getting out of bed is a chore;
being alive is a bore
when you only have
the falling ash to speak to,
so eventually you stop getting up at all.
there's no admiration here.
melancholy does not
discriminate; her victims fall into her open palm.
death feels nothing; he just
takes and takes and
remorseless,
leads you away;
your own mortality has
finally caught up to you.
maybe death isn't the
villain, but rather just
right.
there is no sympathy for
the dead, and no
mercy for the living.
