For a second the clouds
cover our sunlight
Whilst we are on a journey
away from somber thoughts;
At this point:
water silently flows from our cheeks
Enemies embroidered in gold dresses
deceive our minds
Light sits within
the warmth of the river

Father! Father!
I called upon your name
You heed not as days wane

Father! Father!
How long we've played this game
Where you've ran with no shame?

Father! Father!
Years after my youth waned
Why han't you call my name?

As colours fade from familiar halls
And graffiti messily takes its place
The gentle murmurs, now lost in walls
Chatter no more in empty space

I colour a new place as I leave
Of vibrant paint for heavenly dreams
To ride the memories that I weave
And hear voices at blissful streams

Death watches us all.
At our birth, death lies beyond sight
and is merely informed of our existence.
But as time progresses, death plods forth
from beyond the horizon to the fog’s end.
At that point, death watches,
looming in the distance,
standing, dark as night.
For the unfortunates death comes early.
For the over-extenders death waits patiently.
But for all, death comes.
We near death; death nears us,
counting down our every breath
until the last.

The whitest snowflakes gracefully glide
They settle on trees and towers of mine
The dark of the cave I'd gladly abide
A warm shelter from the frost outside
Night settles, I run to a tower of mine
Through thin glass I watch my first sunset
Over a grand forest of spruce and pine
Transfixed, I learn this I cannot forget.
And yes. My tracks had farewell longtime
I've journeyed far lands throughout my prime
But as I dwell upon this memory
The home I'd know only until then
My eyes pour upon the discovery:
I remember. I feel the frost again.

My pages speak nothing of love
For me it is sinful to glorify thereof
My journals are true to emotion
Love is absent and forbidden

The only traces are unrequited;
The remorseless: skillfully blighted

But he has cleared all heretofore:
He has rebuilt the love I'd bore
And come to me after a marathon
Jovial to have crowned me paragon

Now my pages can dance and wheel
And no longer share my solitary ordeal

Crops crave for water at a hill
Thirst visible on their stalks
The sky gushes a coal black
But no. It is not rain.
Nothing to quench a crop’s thirst.
Only the manifestation of darkness
roaming the skies
And yes. Walking on a road, intimidated,
Before me, in the distance:
Nothing but dead man’s hill
But now a smirking old woman:
Silently still.