Less than little

Twilight is dead. She is not here. Nor herself. Her feet hurt just like the soul. Waste of words. No soul, none desired. She stares out the window. Dreary charcoal sky and stretched shadows. No soul seen. She does prefer her solitude. Isn’t she gifted such sane mind.

No movement, then shivering form. Stare on. It stares. No love, no compassion. She in the corner. She smiles. In the dark where at ease. Light not such a matter. But there is no light. That explains the cliches. She opens her mouth. Worthless, it would be a mistake. No she is not going to contribute. The mouth is shut. No words here. No filth. It is all filth. The muck.

From corner to out view extends. She sees on. For now still Twilight sees on. From sitting somehow. Staring to out, window reaching floor. Natural to reach for ground. Momentum trends down. Sinking all. Twilight sinking all. Self first of all. Till dead. All being good as other. Meaning not in the least.

Her view. Barren trees and autumn chills, positioned below her vantage. Her vantage is dirt. Mild toned dirt spread in mounds and knoll. Ending at tree line. Clouds bear down, at her, scowls eternal. Isn’t she gifted such contempt. There is no eternity. It passes, gloom grows. She left lingering.

In the twilight. She is Twilight. So tells herself. In the twilight Twilight tells herself, last I checked I was Twilight. More or less. As good as other. None good, other less. Last checked Twilight is a little less.