Kirasoru

Just as the light touched down I felt it write my future; a future of might and frailty. The wind howled with a passion, A whisper, yet loud with the past; A past of proud actions and humility. A single wave crossed the ocean, Easily able to pave the path of the present, One I can't save, moving swiftly. Leaving the bold cliff behind; One I let hold my weary soul, Letting the cold sea of time take me.

TICK, TICK, TICK. The droning sound of the clock, Matching the steps to my aimless walk Around the enclosed room, empty of all except the wick. Alight in a blaze, Fragile and small, yet its phase Lights the room and nips the air, Slowly taking it away, but with care. Gone on for hours, getting dreary. The air becoming heavy and distant. All caused by a flame, so small and weary, Taking time as much as the air, how quickly it was spent. Now cloaked in darkness, my lungs becoming sick, No one noticing my end, save for the clock Who watched my demise that began with a walk. TICK, TICK, TICK.

The ruby red lips Of the innocent shine, Even through the night that nips With its chilling air so fine. Yet is it called fair, How even in this clear night A sinister gaze penetrates the air, Foreshadowing this damsel's blight? Her demeanor growing meek As the shadows begin crawling. Her divine goods becoming bleak, For the past means nothing. What we've done and what we've wished create the image that went Into the world for them to see, but will never change the present.

In the spout, The spirited spider, a speckle splashed spinner, Spun its spacious web spastically As the autumn air aggravated the apple trees, stirring the serene scenery, whisking away the wondrous webs from before, renewing the retired scene in Rhode Island.

The pencil rolls reluctantly towards the edge, The bitter coffee still steaming. Mangled hair covering a solemn face of An artist, savior to those without dreams, is quietly seated in front of his work In the night With the gloomy light, dripping red while his mind slips. Now he dreams.

It was one of the few that stayed in that place, on the hill, in the breeze of the wind on the outskirts of the bustling suburbs. One of the silent things towering above the people, forever silent with its vibrant leaves hovering over us and crushed below. It remained through the chaos of the ever-changing weather, and the unforgiving expansion of the suburb; the people unaware of this guardian. One of the few in a life that's against you as when your triumphs still bring despair in your journey. The man slept next to it for the final time.

      During one brisk, rainy evening in June, John Walker, returning home from another late night at the morgue, was solemnly strolling down the street when he saw a stray dog in a miserable state sitting under a tree. At the sigh, John felt a deep sorrow for the lost dog, so he comforted it with a slight pat and spoke to it as if consoling a poor, lost child, all the while his mind churning with shadowed confusion.      After this slight detour, John resumed his travel home, only to have the dog quickly accompany him. Though John attempted to persuade it from doing so, it insisted on tracking him back to his gloomy abode.      Once home

Because the wise are always watching They know these fears of time: To stare upwards at the dimming stars, To contemplate what was once reality, To curl-up on the broken tiles, To watch the world crumble from amongst the shadows. These are the ways of a withered soul.