Moving seasons eclipse the rise of the morning light;
the skies, now frozen with flowing seas of clouds
reflect the dimming of the falling stars
bundled in blankets of darkness.
The glowing radiance of the morning moon
beckons over the horizon;
broken grounds birth the resurrection of a broken ocean of grey,
the possibility of regeneration golden in corruption.
The icy wind breathes
into my weeping soul,
crashing sorrows and bleak emotions
aroused, here in black residence.
My hand reaches out into the darkness of an open flame;
the sparks of reality flicker in the depths,
echoing the past and mimicking the present.
The flapping of winged surreality wakes me,
and I welcome my departure.