Even when you're black, you're still a sheep.

Hollow wood disintegrates on the touch of a fingertip
Dishevelled twigs splinter,
cascading in quiescent chaos.

in the crepuscule: you and I wait.

Perhaps it is the endless benches,
the corridors that clang in death's silence.

in the crepuscule: I wait.

We are nothing.
I am nothing; they are something.
There is grey.

in the crepuscule: I am.