Hours 29.06.010

we are nothing in these silent hours.

as we were once; so are we not now.

the seeds of a dying flower disperse, to foster new life;

shards of a life will not grow, 
retaining a lesser and ever-fading glow

of things that may once have been.



schisms of the mind have no will of their own,

and will not grow—

but flatten.



and too soon, the world has been leached of its light.
nuclear waste into fertile ground;

our only hope is fluke-mutation—

and if we can manage to further the race,

what of our own splintered selves?



how faint the glow.
how unified in blindness and

anonymity of the mind.



Death to the Art—

and Death where Life alone should blossom.



the words are greying the pages are greying the pens are greying,

my fingers—

they are Grey:



and i am withered.

and i remember not of Myself.