The One Who Knows of Nothing

My mind bleeds into rippling rot

telling the time heeds no purpose in agony

in my solitude I feel my heart melt away from green and gold

the grittiness and gentleness feel the same to the one who knows of nothing

if i were to be a person who knows something

for which I tell myself that i am,

in what way would life reveal itself to me?

Shall my comforts be ridden and burned to ash, yet my hardiness be solid once more?

Or will the confines become null and I will once more feel the freedom of time?

Once then, must my time be over, shall i feel myself?

or will the person i am come to be the self that i speak of.