Autumn.
Dead as the plants,
Green may I seem-
Yet Dying within my days.
Yearning life, a life within the darkness? Or a darkness beyond life.

I am the only body upon the world.
Facing reality,
To find I am only facing myself.
And when my limp body lay beneath that warm, blanket water,
I listen deeply to the silence.
The silence is my home.

As I sit here, on the desolate hillside, I gaze. The smoke beyond the perks of the limitless sky is a blanket, an invisible presence marked upon our lungs. Yet the fresh, indecent, oblivious morning air echoes our infinite liveliness. Death will slowly **** us, he will poison our flesh. And only the sweet, soft bones will live on.

Home may be a house,
But home is just a foreign land,
Without an owner.

I lay here, gazing at nothing but darkness,
Yet it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
And I wonder,
How can darkness be so pretty?
So full of life,
When all it is, is nothing.
And I realise.
We do not see darkness,
We are darkness.