Cunning Folk

by Adam L.G. Nevill

Ancient trees instil repose, austere sentinels drowsing in the corner of fields. Below their muscular branches mooch caramel cows patched with chocolate. Above the vista, the dusty sheets of ashen cloud break apart into cumulus, plump like white cotton.

THIS is pure poetry <3

If this is the passage to death then he will take it without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Naked, swallowed by this wondrous, gentle void, he submerges into nothingness. The sense of inhabiting a body falls away with the trifles of an oppressive past. Here, all of that is rendered meaningless.

I hope this is what death is like

Regret feels like a breastplate made of lead.