To march, to proceed, to kill. What are we marching towards? Why, to the miserable fog that we call "spring". This thick covers all life, overgrown, decaying or stalling, from the bloody swords and scepters that we call M and S in our language. The strangling ivy wraps around the great tree, the tree that burns. The grey cubicle, that I once called home, has turned into a battlefield, of lush flytraps, of undead nightshades, glaringly displaying itself amidst countless mindless corpses.
What irony that fills one's face with unyielding smoke of confusion. March is the month of death, or morose. Grey skies weep upon the graves of the sacrifice to the greed of mankind, to the collapsing walls of the cubicle, to the history that is heavier than ever. Endless rain pour from the white mesh of pure melancholy, attempting to dilute the bloodshed, yet in vain, for the bloodshed has lasted for hundreds of eons, longer than the memory that anyone alive possesses. This river of heme has flown for eternity, that while we see it, hear about it every day, we simply walk past it, contributing to the flow of this acrid rust.
Every March is when the metallic gates of the enfer open, when the reaper himself comes to claim the lives of the unfortunate, though this is not necessary at all, for the minds have already been betrayed and lost in the forgotten woods. Simply wave your sickle, and the heads will follow. Save yourself time, and indulge in apathy.
March is the month of apathy, of indulgence, of wastefulness. The East wind blows, away from the vast ocean to the already oppressive shoreline, sticking drops of tear on all walls. The grey walls of the cubicle then seems even more depressing. Injustice rise from the ground, like the fog that emerges from the endless ocean of puddles, blinding all men beneath the sun, or the lack of.
March is a nightmare of thirty-one days, where all joy lays waste to unyielding evils, inundating the earth, the air, and the sky. Yet March goes on every year. Painful, but fateful. Unfortunate, yet determined. Ghastly, though permeating.
The cries of the fog
The sobs of the walls
The wailing of the cubicle
Overcome
I recognize none
But fear.
