The rubble cries, mourning the loss of human touch. Weeping over the crushing silence that echoes through the once busied cobble-****** streets. These neglected edifices, with their iron-rusted bones, litter the long-vacant valley. The inhabitants of the forgotten valley stopped bearing children and began falling ill, heralding the arrival of their great collector.

On their own horizons, the people could see the visage of their guilt, cloaked in tattered rags that seemed to disintegrate against the most subtle breeze and sitting atop an emaciated mount with pallid skin. That rider, who strolled ever so slowly, dragging behind him wrapped in chains the ill-begotten promises of fools, the indiscretions of humanity came with ample warning. They ignored him; their self-loving monuments fell, and the crystalline waters of their gilded fountains flowed with arsenic. All too late did they recognize the shameful consequence of their hubris.

And so, when that cold Gray Rider arrived, gaunt and hollow-eyed, to collect his caravan of souls, the buildings howled like mothers sending the last of their children into the cold, unforgiving world. Thus, the sorrowed rubble weeps until it is reclaimed by the borrowed Earth, slowly returning to the soil from which it was born, allowing the verdant valley to take shape once again.

the singer's gone,
he's killed himself
did you hear?
was it ambition?
or was it the great ol' gloom
that did him in?
the songs appear again
they travel in the wind
and i can hear the birds still singing
that mellow tune
wind plays the harp
my heart beat drums
it comes together in the end
the singer lives

                                                                                             the singer lives

Seeds, too, were surrounded by darkness
before they became anew—
held close by the quiet earth,
pressed into silence so deep
it swallowed the memory of the sky.

Did they mourn the light they had never known?
Did they fear the weight above them,
or trust the unknowable forces
that buried them so?

And when they split themselves apart,
breaking open to grow,
was it with joy,
or was it pain
that gave way to life?

What, then, of us?

Darkness, meet the sound of water
I was a rampage, now I calm
Barren from ****** charm
Violet fissions igniting in my mind

I can feel an end coming,
A millennium long surrender
My castles rumble on rolling waters

           Darkness, meet the sound of thunder

From the ashes of the dead, new life is born
And hope will rise like the sun on Easter morn
The same fire that ravages, gives warmth and light
The same fire that destroys, on a candle, is a welcome sight
We will rise again on the wings of the dawn
We will dance with the joy of a newborn fawn
It is a chance to rebuild, restart, and renew
To see what beauty lies hidden from view
From out of the ashes, we will rise again
We say: "Let it be done" Amen
From the crucible of fire, we will survive
Having been purified, we will now thrive
The loss is real, but it mustn't feel
Like the end. It is a brand-new start
And the memory will remain here in our hearts
I truly believe that out of the ashes we will find
Evidence of something profoundly divine
That in its wake there will come a grand revival
An awakening of faith that will have no rival
There will be a day of great jubilation
Where people will come from every nation
To join hands and hearts as sister and brother
Where peace resides and we love one another
From these ashes, I pray we will remember
That life is fleeting, and life is a treasure
But we will rise above the ashes and dust
To find something in which we can trust

Autumn is here, the leaves turning pale.
Evening is here; the day slowly fades.
The falling leaves, the gloaming sun
The arched moon, the winter's turn
All singing a melody of revival
For death is necessary before life's arrival

We often fail to realize
That we are always at a cross roads
Gazing at the unrelenting precipice
Of decision and consequence
Each moment one away
From falling farther or rising above

A life after death
prayerfully sought in churches —
Mushrooms in tree stumps

The last rose petals fall to the ground
leaving the rosehips bare
as autumn’s chill again comes around
to strip blooms that had been fair.
The rosehips have hairs all wiry and grey
that also break off, one by one.
Her color is gone, she fades away
until this rose lady’s season is done.
Her petals arrayed on frosty soil
decay gently in the cold rain
while in her hips, seeds are born
to bring forth new roses again.