I am surrounded by death.
The trees, barren and smothered by cold,
Stand as a testament
To the failure of Mother Nature;
And though Persephone has returned,
Demeter still mourns,
The leaves blanketing the earth
Perceiving what should be—
The product of a blooming spring—
I see only wilt
And the consequence of striving;
The crisp death concealing the world,
The rotting flesh of inadequacy—
To say all is dead
Would be to prevaricate;
The trees still produce,
And stand tall, grasping for the heavens,
But there is no flourishing,
No beauty to behold.
They are, in essence, merely existing.
In this spectral perception of nature,
I see reflected myself;
For all the striving,
I am beaten by forces unstoppable,
And though my labors bear fruit,
It is bland to the taste.
While I appear to be alive,
It is a bare, dead existence.