PRE-OCCUPIED

 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.