A fresh page

crumbling form; a scribble, a thought, a distorted truth, a converging point 

scorched and scorned 

are we merely a figment, fighting to leave our footprints

our scars, that we desperately try to impress upon this world

this earth

on others' life 

to make a remark, a point, to make our existence

that much worthwhile;

are we fools

dancing on our graves

are we just a pity 

seeking those costumes to dawn upon our weeping form

oh dearest; 

dont cry

dont cry at my funeral my darlings

for im not there.