[What Aftermath Brings] a poem

   Things are different in the aftermath of death; the night becomes more appealing, the decrepit trees gather your interest in their slow descent to the earth, the rain has no feeling, it just seems to fall stagnant and light as not to disturb your line of thought that has become nothing more than a black hole, a worn, gaping depth that leads to the same place, nowhere


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Labial Laughs]