Erosion, I relate. Endure each year compliant, with a constant ache-- coursing chest, throat and forehead. I have grown tired of life, tired of futile violence. This internal onslaught and all that stirs under succession thrones.
Sinking gut feeling, some things I never could seem to escape. Oh dear, would you please silence your cynicism? You know, not everything has a beginning and end.
Sleight-of-hand centuries, dismissing beauty in subtleties, can’t name a goddamn thing until it’s dead or complete. Soft power struggles. A slow defeat seems inevitable-- can’t revert concrete roads back to a field of marigolds.
Cycle the seasons. Some things I suppose will always remain. My dear, what a merciful benediction: most everything has a beginning and end.
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