I'm afraid to inform you:
That this poem is about what rocks dream of.

An oblique darkness warps the empty sight,
Impenetrable night drapes curtains over the numerous veils behind,
They fall backwards unto infinity,
Yet depth itself is the lonely remnant of a dream to them,
A dream filled with disquieted mute tones,
A symphony too quiet for the ears,
A sight beyond the horizon,
The present sits uncomfortably disjointed from this land,
Maybe such a thing can be considered oblivion.