Song of darkness

I am weary and torn by the restless and lingering pain

waking and yearning and sleeping and waking again.

I am sick of the flow of the hours, of life and its things,

of summers and autumns and winters and cloying springs.

I am bored by the forests and mountains, and rivers and downs,

distressed by the noise and confusion and dirt of the towns.

Even death at the end is uncertain, the grave is unclean

How I envy the nothing that is not and never has been!