Blog for Nameless-Value

novel, essay, poetry, criticism, diary

White Death Cloud

If death would be just while as if our breath disappearing into misty cloud, that would be so easy.


But reality disturbs its going.


If being alive would be even with so much pain, all sensation diffusing to the whitened smoke, that would be so easy.


But reality pulls us back the darkened it.
We again groan and howl creeping on the dirty floor, looking for dim murky light over there.


At shiny sun’s early spring occasionally seduces us to be evaporated to the skies mingling with a little wet and glazed white clouds.


Death comes near to me, again.
Opaquely drifting my soul’s sprinkling drawly tears’ pour makes me numb in solving my body tangibility, but foggy clouds surround me in the air.


My sensation scarcely can make me visually seen to everything.


Death comes near to me again.
No more ambient music to me from now on.
Inexorably pitiless reality is a little alienated from me, but my next whereabout must have another relentless somewhat I moan, waiting for my coming white death is invited with my wish, but originally it must be fixed my notional heaven, with opaque clouds and now I have nowhere to go but there.


(Feb. 26th. 2020)