A shelf of broken bottles
Once a collection of happy memories
Now collecting dust, the happiness long since spilled
I pick up the pieces each time
Another bottle fallen and shattered
The collection, once sweet
Replaced by a bitter reminder

New bottles come in from time to time
Allowing a new shelf to be filled full
Though not as sweet as the vintage
But, as I try to enjoy them, my grip slips
Another broken bottle, another pile of glass
Until I have another shelf of broken glass

The wind, singing its lullaby through the trees
A slow song, a wonderful song, calling me to sleep
The rustling around of leaves, whispering the secrets of the land
A bedtime story from the time before man
Oh the wonders of the world
Shown by the starlight
Can you bring me now
Good dreams tonight?

A bird of no wings,
Fallen from its nesting place,
Still flies on clockwork

In my hand, there's a pen to write the world
I quiver, reluctant to start writing, the ink pooling into a puddle
Why am I the one upon which this rests?
What if I cause more pain than there already is?
What if everyone hates me for this?
What if there are better ways of rewriting than I can do?
What if...
What if...
What if...


















I set the pen down, leaving the task for someone better suited for this

The light inside
It wavers, brightening, then fading
I still carry on, letting it light the way

It begins to fade, growing cold
I cannot see, though this has happened before
"Who am I?" I wonder in the dark

"No matter," I say, continuing on
Bumbling through the tough terrain
The ember slowly growing

I come across another
Whose light is growing dim
"Want to walk together, friend?" I ask

Onward we wander
Darkness growing scarce
Until our lights waver both

Another light approaches
Asking us to join them
As their light grows

We wander far
Collecting friends
To help stave off the dark

The rose, a proud crimson in the moonlight
Lay upon a white cloth, resting in its resplendence
A drop of blood, caught on the end of the stem, drops down
Expanding across the cloth
Why, now, is the rose so white?

Rain
Falling down from stone gray skies
I look up to the expanse of gathering clouds
Feeling them seep in, surely, slowly
A drop hits a rose, a petal falls
A sad splotch of red upon the ground
Another petal falls, adding crimson
To the puddle below