hermitage

with the usual
sepulchral eyes,
you ponder and plunder
what lies deep to be dug
in the outskirts of disdain.

the chromium voices echo
your abysmal,
as you lay complacent
in the aurora of
your burning self.

chirruping the essence
of living in the
most doomed monotone,
where silences reckon
what lacks in the blaring world.

a falling leaf,
questions
no entity,
but rejoices the
brevity of its fall,

where trickles only freedom
what world describes as loss.