That was all you would know,
With the passing of your life,
On a hyper-lapse of memory,
It’s obscurity till you occupy it,
To erase the time of innocence.
From winter to fall,
Till crunching of Brown leaves,
On a ground full of yellow wood.
Other’s being senile of insanity,
You are there with that voice,
For preoccuping the incoherent darkness.