What a curious day, the sun beeming as if it saw the sky for the first time, the forest rusting with a silent melody

The creatures all residing withing their safety’s, the wind painting it’s portait among the waters edges

But not a human around, as if the rapture has happened, as if the world was only ever me

I look around, but no sense of humanity anywhere, only the distilled sounds of the breeze

I look and nothing around, my hands tremble with a fear and unease, as if I am being drowned

I sit under a shaded oak, and watch the empty roads, listen to the empty houses

Look at the empty cars, the empty lives

And sit with my empty tears

The eroded frames of this abandoned home, speak of a time that was once better

The pain in its voice, is sorrowfully apparent, the pain it feels creaks among the window panes

I asked why it seemed to feel this way, it spoke to me and said it was alone in its ways

The trees had begun to strangle their roots among its edges, the wildflowers set their camps on its staircases

The finches set their nests on its faded yellow window stills, the fox making a den from the basment

I sat with the rain pouring down, under the porch roof did I listen to its somber tales

In its decay I saw a dark beauty, a damaged purity that was tranquil in the erosion

It’s raining glass on these acres of wood, the shards are a magnificent color of onyx and sapphire

It’s as if the winds are conducting an opera, the trees the actors as they become scarred from the shards

The shards lodge themselves in my skin, but I feel no pain, I feel no hurt

As the blackend sun begins to set on these acres, the rays illuminate me, and I shine as the salt among the oceans

Steeped in the rains, brittle as the bones of devastated leeches

There’s a sounding cry, that echoes a command, with ferocity and somber

With unsure faith in the drowning fields, it grows louder with each beating pulse

The sound of frustration reigns angelic, a hymn most familiar

Is it anger that will keep this back

these dark corridors that roam in your skull, house the things that trouble you most  

A gas lantern that is your only way, to see the path ahead. Winds try with their might to blow it out

How long before lighting that flame becomes a ritual, and progression is a faint scratch upon these doors