by deafstarsongs

the clouds merged
with the colourless horizon
committing suicide
for the pleasure of us all.
remaining of the clouds
are not objects
but thoughts that go up
into bubbles
making their own clouds
out of themselves.
As the moon wept,
the sun scorched all that lived.
Now useless,
they too merge;
the moon aligning perfectly
with the sun.
imperfectly appearing
as one, with darkness
settling in all.

All that is left shall merge.
All that is left will blend.
We are all horizons, infinite,
yet non-existent.