It is beautiful, melancholy, sad. It is the ecchymotic sky at twilight, of the cold winter,
and the starkness of black trees.
It is the frost upon white marble,
it is the heavy lid of a coffin;
it is the sound of a closing sarcophagus
behind the clang of wrought iron mausoleum doors.
It is here that I find myself in tellurian repose.
Amaranthine and imperishable, cerulean, everlasting, breathless,