Melancholy

The air is yours.
Except…

Is it?

Because when the dust settles,
And you’re buried so deep
You can’t even begin to breathe,

It doesn’t feel like yours.

Your lungs refuse to live;
They drain you of every beat
That your heart struggles to make.

And as the sun sinks
Into the depths of your mind
Even you don’t want to divulge,
And the shadows that have been hiding
Away from the blaze,
Become as apparent as the darkness they create,

You close your eyes,
And open yourself,

To nothing.

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