The mind rests in mourning,
like soft mildew in the fog of winter.
Finally aware of the dark seed within it.
A seed which has sprouted, spread, and tangled throughout;
growing like a tumour;
a cancerous, malignant, destructive web of black;
tightening its grip around the mind –
in an attempt to defend the very thing of which it destroys.
The monstrous seed sits inconspicuously;
at the centre –
Conducting with ease the orchestra of its lifeless musicians.
Stare at fear itself.
It does not want to die.