Death Abound

The land of dreary where nothingness looms. The trees sag, arc and bend bound for the ground. Sound seems muffled, stale deeply tainted forevermore. There is no wafting fragrant effulgence. The grass just isn't quite green. All the stones carry the burdens marked by sadness. Flowers here are watered with tears. The paths are worn by heavy-hearted feet. Birds don't sing happy songs here if they sing at all. Their ballads sound of forlorn days demised. Distant fathomless clouds swell and fill. Then dump their contents on faces who aren't content. Although, we dress to impress here there is no one to delight. Countless unimpressed faces, some full of fright. Once the day falls into shadows and the night creeps upon this place; many of the faces disappear then stillness fills the space. No whispers of voices tender and sweet. There are no moments of boundless embrace. No feelings are burgeoning with grace. Days and nights cycle through again and again. Yet and still, one thing always changes. Decaying putrescent rotting bodies resting six feet, well below the ground. Bodies of our fellow kin slowly decomposing. Just to be replaced in this place. Only the luckiest is to be chosen.


Fruit that hath fallen.