The rests

Cement

dilated pupils trembling

dark materia

turning

the yellow grass growing at its sides

bending

seeking acceptance

from something as seemingly indifferent

as the seasons turning

something encompassing

the grass shooting the leaves trembling

the wind in stride the leftover darkness

caring not more than you do but

externalising the way things ought

the way things ought

as cement guarded matter

trembling stone in a raised fist

the terror sinking into black puddle

the rest as history

until it goes