Blank

The black of night envelopes the mind,
and the toxic pleasure reminds,
That everything around is not some glorious product of life;
Rather, all is the nectar produced by the reaper, slaying all it finds.

The numbing indifference like a cloud come to life,
But it too feels nothing, it was never read its last rights.
For them it will flea,
Trying to leave you be,
But you'll miss the comfort of knowing nothing...
More so than anything.

It stands correct to wonder,
Why not just let it go?
The loss could be for the better,
Or maybe it would be for the worse.
If the sack of bones,
Writing with these meaningless sounds,
Could tell you their thoughts?
They would be at a loss for words.
Their paper would rest blank.