The days know no end.
Under skies molded in grayish clay,
capricious clouds weep,
bathing a series of solemn eyes
in an anemic glow of pallid blues.
I move with them:
unseen, invisible, unknown.
A speck of dust mindlessly drifting
through rays of the leaden sun.
Sober eyes stare past me,
the faint traces of light
all but vanish in midnight hues,
leaving only a trail of replaceable pits.
They toil away,
ignorant of the world above,
blind to the world around them,
longing only for a moment of repose.
I long to be shrouded,
isolated in their diaphanous, black drapes,
subject to those who draw my gaze
through the eyes of the defeated.
To be a winged angel turned away from heaven
for daring to descend into the depths below,
for longing to be with the rattling chain of souls,
brimming with blissful nescience.
Senseless to the soothing breeze
over gently swaying stalks of grass,
or the melodious chat of sparrows
while ripples of orange swath the dusk.
Numb to the thump of the scarlet apple
fallen from the web of boughs and limbs
and verdant leaves of undying green—
a picture out of the pages of a children’s story.
I wish I did not know such things,
such beauty and warmth and comfort.
Things which do not belong in this world,
of heavy processions and silent tears.
I march with them,
forgiving myself under the drum of boots,
losing myself in its pulsating cadence
in this ashen landscape of faded reliefs.
The days know no beginning.
