My words cease to mean a thing,
the air is crisp and cool.
The trees that were once a flourishing green,
now look dead.

I wonder what makes them,
what makes me.
I'm brittle and rough,
like the bark on the trees.

I'm brittle and dead,
like the bark on the trees.
I'm nothing but me,
anything but free.

Quiet in my corner,
I wait for the coroner.
Quiet and dead,
and nothing else.