CXXXIX.

We're burning the pages of books before we've even read them over the same flame where we turn grains of sand into glass monuments that reflect the illusion of grandeur.
Like the wisps of wind that kick up the dirt upon which we walk.
The leaves are dying, but to me they're more beautiful that way.
I hear your true colors come out when you're closer to the end.
I think my soul is black, but I'd like for it to be a bit more vibrant.