Dreary Symphony

Little poem in mute nights

How much is gone and how much was lost, nothing remains and nothing can be trusted. All we bleed are all we've been fed, so we fear what we love and forget what we dread.
But morning rises in each every day, with new monsters to breach through our wounds, and eat through our faith.
So I wonder, can death take all that away?
No more love or dread, no more tears to be shed, only the bless of undying dreams and the madness of Mozart's violins.

indarknessdwells

Author's Note

I highly regard a constructive opinion, or a share of what may make you feel.
Thank you for reading.