I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

Feet tethered to a line leading me to the place called home. Not the home I want or remember. The one placed before me so that I might still reside in life, trivial as it is to me, for the moment. 


Familiar scenery dragging by as if walking backward pulls it on a string, so oddly original this set to be viewed. 


Maybe that's why I crave drastic change. Digging deeper into a pit for the sake of movement or in itself empty progress. 


Collapsing backward arms clawing air yearning for something to catch on to. 


Asleep drowning backwards into the black, 


Praying to grasp and finger at emptiness, to find nothing, and sink at last. 


"What a fight this is. What kind of fight is this, started on an end before my own ill-wrought creation." 


Flight for nothing but itself and to sometime fall.


Trying Regardless