In the end it always goes like this,
symbolizing to me something sad but pure.

Another gone year left to float away.

Layers of life are specks in dusty beings
dying a little more with each skin peeled,

a rotting onion in my salad and I am eating it,
a blanket unraveling on the coldest night.


Death speaks clearly, his scythe taunts
less for reaping crops as it does for souls.

Shadows cast in 2 dimensions, now 3, 4, 5…
summer turns to autumn, winter then nothing.

Only newness to turn brown again with quietus.

Waiting is pleasure, endless sunshine steals it all
to forget seasons like quick meals in paradise.