Splatters are the remains, the only pertinent remains
Of what I have become, Nothing but a smear
On an old, wrinkled page, lost forever.
Canvas of existence that surrounds me. I, like a
Torch that fades without air, and thus robs the
World of precious light, dissipate to nothing
More substantial than drops on a page.
Turns the world black as the wet streak flowing
Down my hands into a puddle on the table.
The more the river flows, the less I see it.
The ferryman asks if I need to cross.
I look at the blurry black note with black lines on it
And I accept his offer...