We're dying slowly, instead of hanging by the neck next to beautiful trees with nails forced inside,
recovered with time by the living wood.
I'm left with a few words, a few names;
I don't speak much, neither do I write. Not anymore.
Let's have it black blank.
If anything was to happen, my only regret would be to be that old, already.
Years on the top of our heads makes what was beautiful pathetic.
All the movies in my head, I let them die, implode,
Implode from their empty content.
I'm still angry after one or two have fallen down,
but not mad.
I don't miss anyone.