Silent… for nothing is left to say
after the insides have slowly decayed.
Words (be they paltry, vital or sweet)
are not more than nonsense, hurt, and deceit.

Rivers withdraw their impetuous breath,
ebbing their waters, longing for death.
Green has escaped from the Cedar and Oak
and gone up in circles of violet smoke.

Bluebells that dance and rejoice in full May
will never see Summer’s most luminous day.
Clouds have obscured the gossamer sky
while storms have destroyed both June and July.

Carcasses lie on beds of dead grass.
None have been given their funeral mass.
Time has grown wanton for lost souls, as these,
to churn and release them like dust in the breeze.

I have eluded the clutches of time,
yet ended up loathing my treacherous crime;
now, in my dreams, they enact with delight
the war of my death, the song of my plight.

My body is hanging up high in the trees;
all I can hear are the harrowing screams.
All I can see is our blood on the ground.
All I can smell is the dry stench around.
(Time… kill me!)

Scars in an unstable mind never heal.
Injured, the nerves have forgotten to feel.
Truth is not present in modern belief.
Science is chaos. Knowledge is grief.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙

Quiet… for nothing I’ve uttered has worth.
Few things, if any, have any on earth.
This is a poem which sprung out of pain.
Please disregard it; these words are insane.