Lachrymose Lane

A deserted city street.
Where the non-existent sun would be but a pink grapefruit.

A single streetlamp.
The only source of light itself begins to fade.
And weeps.
The stone maiden in grievance of friends whose decaying bodies lie in the street.


Every house dead, empty, decrepit. As well as every soul that lived among them.
There breathes but one.

A sad student.
See the waterfalls flowing from their face.
Sat by a tree spending its final day on the soil there.
It gasps, chokes, struggling to hold on when there is nothing to grasp.

The side begins to ache and it goes.
Slowly.
S-l-o-w-l-y.
S--l--o--w--l--y.

The last leaves descend and are lost in the wind, it takes the last breath and s.l.o.w.l.y.
Passes away. The student has become naught but a glacier.
With frozen tears.

For in this place, there lies no hope.
No light.
Nor anything.

No Moon.
No day.
No night.

A heavy, heartless cloud. Of truly nothing.
There is no emotion to be felt.
No pain to be given.

Nowhere and nothing.
No story to tell of how this came to be.

No present.
No future.

Nothing remains to see.

No secret hidden or any mystery.
Even a name it is said to be called, in truth there is nothing to call.

Lachrymose Lane is nowhere.
At all.