As the days grow long and the nights turn cold,
There is no promise of tomorrow told.
Through the ages and the stories that we would tell,
Our times of greatness and the times we fell.

Lessons of the old shall spring forth the new,
As the tides of change come to rest.
The monsters we were but saviours we claim,
Building our thrones as the innocent wept.

The sheep scatter as the wolves run freely,
Rounding about their claim for feast.
They eat in delight although never satisfied,
Hunting the rest, the nature of beasts.

Deep in the valleys our minds do wander,
We come to know ourselves in the low.
As we make our climb up mountains of splendor,
We forget who we are and the low that we know.

Take heed in the present day, and every minute played,
Soak in precious moments like cold rain on summer day.
Let dreams be guides like shining stars ever in sight,
Let them be ever changing, giving away new light.

But, we all must witness our light fall into darkness,
The perils that shape, break, build, and weaken.
For what is good to us can so quickly be taken,
Or bring us where we need like oncoming season.

At the end of our journey on the edge of the earth,
Time will stand still and not a minute to be sold.
Embarking in past memory, to bring final meaning,
As we see there is no promise of tomorrow told.

Awakened by the crashing sounds of the storm, the old man lay afraid,
Not by the storm itself, but by the fear of what lies in the dark unrestrained.
He’s spent his days collecting items of intrigue and boastful of all combined,
But now as the lights have vanished, his wants and desires soon redefined.

He stumbles. The house shakes with each blow of light from the Gods,
The very thing he needs also sees to tease in flashes. What are the odds?
Prized possessions become meaningless as he rages through the home,
Searching for a light, a glimmer of hope to conquer this storm alone.

The sounds of shattering glass and the bangs of trinkets and literature,
He falls, crawls, and bawls through the damage, as light dances a broken picture.
The old man wishes he would have never left the safety of his warm cozy bed,
But fear pushed him forward, now, keeps him lost and stalemate inside his head.

He lies waiting for the storm to pass as the darkness consumes his will,
He ponders the thought of the fear that’s sought, his curiosity gaining its fill.
His possessions were an obsession of filling a void whose depth was in question,
Gone in an instance of subjection, his actions forward will serve the lesson.

He moves. Pushing against fear was a force he never once recognized,
Self-preservation became the illumination of what was missing in his life.
No more boasting, and not a mutter more of what fake flattery has in store,
For the storm that took everything will leave behind a man reborn.