Are we not the sorrow that lingers over the grave—
reflecting on the loss, caught in this state of mourning?
Or are we destined to sink into the depths of those
yellowed memories? My bones tremble at times, and I
find myself lost in thought—yet the fleeting joy persists,
though it remains forever out of reach.

We share laughter like tales over drinks, capturing
moments in a plastic bottle; allowing decay to set in
as we push forward. Each night whispers a prayer for
the dawn, yearning for a horizon filled with forgotten
dreams. The thought of sleep fills me with dread.

As I weep for those seeking solace in suicide
those down to earth fleeing the common ground
humanity has morphed into a threat to redemption—
their artistry has forged dangerous weapons.
We strive to preserve our past, yet we conveniently
ignore the ravages of conflict— the insidious plague proliferates.
All the remarkable ones lie lifeless, frozen in their brilliance.

The thought of sleep fills me with dread; for in
my closed eyes I see the world for what it is.