Premiering incolor, translated without grammar or permanent teeth. Dirt in my hair and clumped in my ears like wax. I am organic and my smile might’ve been temporary - who knew? The timeline moves forward anyway.
I grow old and turn into snow, fluttering helplessly in drift with my thoughts. Crystallized water smoking my vision in a retrospective blizzard. I am sideways and alive but they pour dirt on my head anyway. They are faceless. I am faceless. Everyone is faceless and cold.
My heart pumps fog into my eyes; visions cloudy with distorted, foamy waves. There appears a specter, blurry and white and covered in soot. It shows me everything; it teaches me the story of human condition.
I am but a moment of dust in the space and light. Trees of ash grow from the corners of time. The cold leaks through, down to my bones, and then slips into the dark where shadows are born.
Air is tight. My lungs are heavy; organs operating at high tide. Skin-coated breathing machinery, specially designed for hearty, gut-bursting laughs. Now just gray.
Somewhere between here and there; my elder mind assumed to still work; moving forward, wherever it is. The specter assures it's coming peace. But really it remains faceless and cold and tied to things that are bound to rot beneath the dirt. I can only look forward as I fade into the color of light.