i: the wind howls at the distance

oh the flowers on my grave are wilting

and the crickets go chirping on my window sill

the blades of grass, in the abundance of nothing

and yet i look into the mountain and think.

and the morning comes, awake, awaken,

my slumber is short yet i am awake

you are beside me, the future infront of us

and yet the last destination we'll take is our grave.