To The End

An insect flew over my head, I could have killed it at anytime, I decided to let it live... this makes me wonder abut life, about the sun, about the universe, do we own it? I don't think we do, we create small spheres of reality; like the one I constructed a long time ago... after a harsh winter, all that was left was this, written in an old piece of paper I could barely read:

TO THE END

as dead as a leaf
I'm hanging from a tree
where's home?
I wonder to myself while a raindrop rolls down my surface
your eye ball rolls down the hill
it stopped just to look at me
now the wind has blown us away
south, where sunny days await

ages have dried all fallen tears
winter time made you colder
but your hands still warm mine
while my skeletal body slowly dies
crows peaking a broken heart
a hollow-eyed of a divine spark
in case we get closer to the edge, I have a levitation plan
to fly all over the seas
far into the end
where nature feels regretful about us
because we streamline nonsense