When the clock is no longer
ticking in your direction, and the
clouds upon your
brow are darkening,
when the aurora mist
and ire is brewing, and
the neglected morning earth crying,
the birdsong cut short by winter's knife,
the owls head split open and bleeding,
when the vintage wine is
no longer pouring,
the distant voices have stopped calling,
your only mirror is a blank reflection,
the ashes of the silent past have fallen,
when their hands are no
longer clapping, and their
smiles somewhat shattering,
her embrace is cold and yearning,
the framed family above
the fire weeping,
the leaves from her hair are tumbling,
and outside the pond is drowning.