I have forgotten everything.
Existence itself has become ever so fickle to me.
What does this thing called existence mean?
I can’t remember anything beyond suffering.
My mind has forgotten what exists beyond the clouds.
Is there anything that exists beyond the clouds in my head?
I have forgotten what it was like to be me when I felt alive and whole.
I have been forgotten along with the many other broken souls who lie before me.
We have been left behind within the distant endless swirls of rusty grey dust and ash.
The composition of love is a complex concept for those who have sealed their hearts to avoid the cruel.
The formula of creating the death of a soul is the blackness from unforgiveness, hatred, and unrelenting malice.
Is there hope for the fallen? Is there hope for the broken? Is there hope for the lost? Is there hope for the lonely? Is there hope for the hated? Is there hope for the forgotten?
(all credit goes to the original owner(s) of featured image)