witness the conflagrations
of these, the last days
when fire came from
the sky and the ash
looked like the first snow
of our last winter

in the distant baying
the cries of confusion,
chaos, pandemonium

yet you stood still on a hilltop
at peace, serene, easy
aglow in the fires' light
saying farewell to this
and that madness

the days
grind
to dust.

our sorrow
swells
the clouds.

we have
nothing to
ask of you

any longer.

this is now
our deepest
river.

devoid of liquid
but swift
and eager

to drown.

we move,
like all
things,

toward
the end.

in this,
the penumbra
of depression
emblazoned across
falling skies
the soul
liquifies,
and its slow
turn to acidity
corrodes
motivation,
stiffens all
the joints.
the rest
pours through
thin fingers,
intertwined
and seized
feebly grasping
at the void.