To what do I owe this inundation of unpalatable sentiments?
Have I committed a sin so incorrigible and unatonable that I am to be allowed no reprieve from the inherent suffering of life?
Years have passed since my last confrontation with these sentiments.
My experience with them is negligible.
They only arise in conjunction with my periodic rumination on the white rose which has recently blossomed in the realm of death and depravity.
What strikes me as queer is the absence of the aforementioned sentiments in the physical presence of the said biological life form.
As the boisterous storm refuses to abate, and the impenetrable blackness of the sky lingers overhead, my tenacity lies deceased on the nutrient-deprived grass.
Despite the dreams bequeathed to me by the minds of the hopeless—now long-dead, I know that salvation shall never arrive.
Myriad implorations for reinforcements have been uttered, but they have fallen on deaf ears.
As I kneel on the grass, forlorn and resoundingly defeated, the rain incessantly bombards my cranium, furiously bathing my face with liquid punishment.
The silhouettes of my inevitable demise tower against the barely discernible horizon.
The white rose—once so very filled with vitality and innocence—has capitulated to the battering rain.
I offer to the sky acrimonious lamentations, and feel the serpent of solitude creep up my body, and subsequently strangle me.
I am circumscribed my adamant darkness; the light of the sun no longer permeates the atmosphere, for it too is defunct.
There is no hope.
The morrow is barren of promises.
Death is the only inevitability.