Approaching Lament

Ever-living twilight, the songs of ghosts filter through the archway between open and closed eyes. Falling rain phases in & out, unsure of where to sleep. Shadows tangle around the snow, set to protect against emotional impressions. They cover the wasteland and the mountains, until the areas are merely myths. Blood spots rise from the cold; dries into tombs, escorting fruit into history. Oceans descend down the mouth, and they’re gone like glimpses of eyes. Melancholy ages the hills so much that they can’t hear anything but the road down. All the seeds are silent, because they were once planted before. Two pulsating signs of life ask the other: “What is worth living for; I’m imprisoned in clairvoyant irony. I see youth crash to eldership fade to loneliness turn to sadness fall to black.” Two pulsating signs of life ignore each other, and deny the common infection. “Where once was life is now debilitation, and I haven’t the strength to let it go.”