A Piece of poetry

The way of us

On the windowsill are flowers,
Which have been dry for a long time.
I'm sitting under the power of darkness.
And I don't care. I want to cry.
Skin is itching,
And my body's yearning.
But darkness is preaching
And quietly singing its songs.
It's singing about death and love
That turns into hatred.
Maybe it's the way of that, -
Soon my soul will be melting.
And will fall to pieces
What we call life.
My heart is full of ennui
By what we lose in our minds.
And we are all to blame
For not realizing, but still
Those flowers that passed away
Withered according to our will.