A golden light,
More pure than my apathy,
Shines down on my little graveyard.
It tries to fill the void.
Futily it comes,
Bleaching trees,
And casting shadows.
I hate this pleasantry.
I find it's mocking beautiful.
The graves all seem to agree.
They despise it as much as I do.
Even the fog can't stand to stay.
Down on the shore,
The smell of salt and decay,
Paint the masterpiece,
That dies before me.
I admonish the gloom of night,
The gentle hand,
That invites me to sleep.
The silence, I hate to love.
The moon sits in the sky,
Stealing the cast of the Sun.
It's really quite tireing.
But if so, why am I awake?
Lapse to the morning,
In it's boring golden grays.
I believe I'm a paradox,
That can't think for itself.
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Submission Name: Untitled By Author, Titled By Someone
