Shine

Pessimist

When the sounds of life die away,
sometime in the end, after the flood,
when the silence melts within the darkness,
who will need the light then?
Who will need the beauty, if there is any.
Immortality, still, stays,
but there won’t be anyone to dream for it,
neither to fight for it,
but maybe it, too, is a part of nature
and will disappear with the dream.
And for what is all the living?
All the running?
All the chasing?
All the blood dropping aimlessly?
The bothering thoughts?
All the hollowing of the untouched.

Staring at the Candle