The day has suffered an early death
With the gray clouds growing forth
The sky is now rid with a displeasing hue
Of withering and livid ash
Trees make do breathing a stifling whiff
Of what was once perhaps a teeming breeze
The branches and the leaves seem to sway gently
To the whir of the chirping crickets
And no shadows cast in this light-less dusk
And pleasures no longer pleasurable
This morbid day casts its woe filled spell
Much like the reaper would claim a soul
And that is how it ends, listless and still
Waning in slow pace with nothingness, aplenty
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