the idea of death

The night is dark
the soul is charred
its landscape tarred
trees bone black
black serpents paved till horizon –
the sad spectacle of thoughts
receding unhurriedly
as stars into nothing
white lions into oblivion;
I observe scattered teeth
engulfed in black blood –
that is the night sky.
Everything turns mysterious,
my hand the lonely shade
the ultimate despair;
merging irrevocably
with the dead of night.

Nihilistic Poetry

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