Death is as inevitable as snow,
Much like windmills on a still day,
Death is the silence of all things.

Death is too late, like snow,
It is never enough, never in time,
Too many tragedies have happened,
And death is too late.

In the distance, clouds cover the moon,
In the distance, mist still descends on the streets,
In the distance, the image of a thousand dying lights,
In the distance, death is still too late.

Of all the tragedies that have played themselves out,
With no agency of their own, just the intersection
Of a million objects in space, death is still too late,
Death is too little to assuage this grief,
That springs from existence itself.

She is sunlight, passed through a prism,
She moves like the breeze through a door,
A springtime promise that never leaves.

She is the heartbreak of a thousand dreams,
She is my shadow, My soul, my tired eyes
After a long day's work.

She is the morning, she is sunrise over the rooftops,
She is dew on every blade of grass,
A petal on every flower.

An old photograph falls out of a folder,
Like a silent leaf in autumn, so silent,
That I wouldn't have noticed it, save
for the glint of the paper, reflecting,
the only lightbulb in my room.

What does the photograph show?
Is it a window to my soul? Is it
the ghost of my past, a thousand regrets
manifesting themselves like an apparition.

I do not recognize the boy in the photograph,
Memory doesn't serve me well anymore,
Moments like these are a lifetime away,
I have forgotten what it was like,
this past life that doesn't exist anymore.

Where is this place, the whitewashed pillars,
the tin roof, the stone walls, the vast cedar trees.
I remember faintly, voices, thoughts, emotions,
that I have lived in the life gone past,
come back to me.

And yet, all is still unfamiliar.

In the pantheon of the Gods,
Only one is missing, and seated across the horizon,
Time sits in Mortality.

She's my Eden, an endless waterfall ,
Sourced from the sky.

Shes my oasis, a distant lake I escape to,
Where eternal sunsets shine vermillion.

She looks at me with eyes,
That caress my soul and soothe my burning shame.

She's my evensong, my last shining light,
The receding tide, eternal Eventide.

And years from now her eyes,
Shall read these words and she'll turn away
From the bus that would take her far from here.

She will come back to being
Both my shadow and my soul.