Somnambulist

Seasons slip away into decaying years, barely kept intact with a fading memory. All that remains is the remorse of an uttered soliloquy. I’m lying in the bed more like a coffin than consolation, breaking apart before your eyes without any indication. Watch me blend: A somnambulist heading for the gravity’s welcoming arms. See me bend and twist without a state of alarm. I’m the walking dead, Looking ahead in the intermediate haze to the final hour. If there is an afterlife, it surely takes time to devour It’s sardonic prerequisite; It’s making me forget to look around and breathe in all that is beautiful. I forgot what beauty was at all. Seasons slip away, whether you’re beautiful or simply another scratch on the wall.