all of us
with the black dog that roams the mind, that,
like a jinx, snaps at bright thoughts;
sit in darkness out of pity of moths?
And if not,
why flatter Oblivion;
why dress His crown with more
You rob yourself of your ashes.
all of us,
who’s thoughts creep like some dark vine;
winding us to the end in every second.
for who this flower
was plucked straight from a grave.