Winter Of Life

Nightfall in the mind in mid-day, the vanishing world's last gasp, last hope for the last time fades, ever fading into the blackness. There is a single blade of unseen grass in there, somewhere. Someone told me that. How many lies about how many blades are there, as many blades that grow? Every sprout is a promise of something untold that ends in a field of parched earth. The sprout is saying that it is not, it is nothing but that, an untold promise. A promise untold is not a word or a song nor even a sound; it is itself, and nothing more. Nightfall in the mind is in the mind and no place else but it is dark nonetheless, perhaps darker than the night of invisible grass. The voices of nightfall wait to speak in a weak but powerful voice more softly than silence. The pumping heart in the ears says you are alive but no one can hear the beat but you. It is another lie in nightfall of the mind, or perhaps not, as there is no way to tell. Only because you know it is nightfall do you know it is nightfall, when age has frayed your nerves from being used for so long but the mind does not care. Such is the winter of life when the day is dark and the grass is a promise of nothing. But you could not care less, because it doesn't matter.

By Buckspinster

From: United States