I am unsure if we are ever free, if we ever truly know something that doesn’t feel like life

My feathers have become much weaker, and my age seems to be my foe

This shroud of dread, that rains acid across the green and gravel

The air becomes thick with fog, and I feel that quivering sickness again

the leviathan sheds its skin again, they form mountains of decay and rot

the ground around becomes poison, seeping into the waters around

the moth flies towards the flame, not knowing of the fate it has

i throw my body into the grey, hoping to find myself somewhere else

the leviathan begins to scream aloud, and the sky begins to bleed

i hold my breath in primal fear, unsure of what will become

A body exhausted, full of dead bodies of former selves
Sunken blackened eyes, deep wrinkles in the forhead
Hands that shake and hum, with no true stop
A voice that is weak, fatigued at the mere action of speaking

It is a trial of pain, that it has to go through
No sense of peace or content, only dread and struggle
Wandering aimlessly in a fog
With no hope of finding direction

Is this the fate we all share?
This connective tissue of the human condition
All that we are born to do, is simply exist
With no real hope or happiness

I do not wish to believe that to be so
But, as these days grow longer
And my will loses more and more petals
I am unsure that I can see the better angels

The vast shadows, that cross along the body of a doe
Five legs that sink into the snow, hooves that are breaking
The cabin above the tree line, in this valley of dead pines
A solemn gaze upon a world that is sick and diseased

What we face in our lives, is the mistakes we are too afraid to acknowledge

The hanging moss of our weeping limbs, hanging in bitter contempt of itself

That wishes to find salvation from within, but only sees an abyss

Here is our true tragedy, that keeps our skin grey with the thought of loss