the slowest way of dying

everyone’s moving forward and I’m moving backwards

but I don’t know if it’s exactly like that

if I mend broken roots

to heal the entire structure

and stand tall no matter what

without wayward winds tormenting my bones

while I’m placing myself solely in hiding

never displaying true values

buried in the ground

among other magical characters and their secret principles

playing dead, but still thriving

while their wicked weeds writhe like snakes

under the sheer armour of my brain

free from them for good

only the cries of seagulls and the whispers of ravens

will be the only music played after me

when no one would dare to look at me no more

my words, ideas, and photographs

they’ll weather every storm that’s left of me

however not caused wholly by my life

but by the incompetence of others around