‘tis here
You sold yourself to the night, and they paid you in nightmares. They gave you the same quota that you gave, your life and your freedom. Worry not, for greed hath killed many before you, and has claimed many a life before it had yours in its grip. Thou hast changed, thou hast been consumed, by the very dogs you reared. Your hair is tough as nails, matted with mud and filth, remnants from where you emerged. Oh, good one, where did it all go wrong? Where did it all fall apart? Crumbling, slowly by slowly, your blood is roiled in mud, a stench to high heavens. Thy end, ‘tis here. I can see it, can you?
Make your choices fast, and begin descending to your grave, a grave you dug. There is no end to your falling, and there is no respite from the fire, for it shall scorch you till you are but a pile of dust. You are a leper, and your fingers crumble before they get to touch. Your eyes fall off before they even begin to open. Your eyes close out, blind to the world you had known, vain beauty, vain struggles, whose rewards is nothing but emptiness, and love is bereft, long lost a phrase, buried in grief and incredulity. Sorrow, oh, ‘tis here. I am already weeping thy end.
The lone trees you are, in an expanse, never forgotten, for you are alone in the field of insignificance. It sacrifices everything it has to stand for. It is a favourite place for lightning to nest. Oh it is thee, a poisoned oasis, a cursed fruit, to kill the hunger and the hungry, to quench thirsts and the fire of life, but your train has arrived. ‘Tis here. Knock, knock at thy door, who that be but you’re end?