Seven billion hearts
float amidst
crimson tides of
revolving tendrils.
Obscure in their
nature, forlorn
in their plight,
a path coalesces
from their pleasure
and pain.

On the wings
of angels,
do they fly?
Torn from their
natal host
in a vacancy
of eternal slumber,
do they reside?
Their leaking orifices
exude the lost prophecies
their primal heir
toiled for.
The timelessness of decay
in a vast plane of
logic and enigmatic
illusions.

With grandeur abreast,
wiped from the millennia
of ancient tales,
do they remain?
A mountain of reason
overlooking a murk laden
lake with prospects
aplenty conceals
the hidden wisdom of
their inner youth.
A barren pursuit
of friend
and foe.

Or inside their fever wrapped
marrows, do they fall?
Further from emancipation
to the gallows of
thought and ill-fated
treasons, do they fade?
An infallible musing
of periled destiny,
ripe with the
wounds of the
forgotten dust.
Their revelations a
twisted grove
of fate
and misfortune.

Seven billion hearts
float amidst
crimson tides of
revolving tendrils.
Once symbols of
idiosyncrasy now
footprints on a
black canvas, a single star
in a universe of eternity.
Simple in their movements
yet aloof
in their time.
A perpetual reminder
of the wondrous
before
and after.