timeA haunted look, a ragged gasp--
my breath seems to freeze.
The slap of feet in winter's air
is taken by the breeze.
I run, I race, I carry on
and yet cannot escape
this thing, this fear, this enemy
that takes no form or shape.
Each tree I pass, each stranger new,
each flower frozen sweet,
has given in, has grown old,
has gone and faced defeat.
The clocks all tick, the bells all toll,
the world is ever burning.
The earth is spinning, spinning, spinning
and I am yearning, yearning.
My heart, my pulse, my crimson blood;
they all beat madly fast.
The sound of passing Time, of years,
Of future, now, and past.
I take a stride, and then another
but time will forever hold
my soul, my life, my every being
until I'm bent and old.
A weathered face, wrinkled skin,
a life slowly failing,
and in its wake, Time ever follows
with Death behind it, trailing.
Another tree, another face,
I slow, the world is still.
I've given up, Time has won
Death creeps in to kill.
lost in the borderlandslost in dreams
of starless nights,
she lingers in the borderlands
torn between insanity and saneness.
loathe to cease her midnight dreamings,
she strays into moonlight,
the sound of ocean waves
echoing throughout her mind,
luring her further into
her dreamworld's web.
most times she is fearless
soaring among the highest stars
or diving beneath the darkest waters,
wandering through mystical dreamed-up
but sometimes she is frightened
fearful of the impending dawn,
when the moonlight will fade and take
her imaginings along with it.
often she wonders whether there's
a difference between
her dreams and reality,
for she can hardy tell
which is which,
the lines have blurred so.
she pretends real life is
just a terrible dream which goes ever on
The Song of the SeaDo you hear the soft voice adrift at night,
as it slips through the darkness, enshrouded?
Tis the whisper of wings, of birds in flight,
as they soar through the skies, darkly clouded.
Do you hear the song beckoning, beckoning softly,
'cross the stormy seas and black, churning waves?
Tis the voice of the sirens, the song of the sea,
and dead sailors in their watery graves.
Do you hear the fierce rushing, the rapid, crisp flutters
of sails that have filled with swift breeze?
Tis the sound of the skeleton crew's mutinous mutters
as they man their ghost ship with skilled ease.
Tis a terrible truth that the beauty of the sea
is too often lost
on all but brave sailors,
and even then at great cost.