A Burnt Evening Waltz

When the wind breaks the silence and the grains hit the glass, yesterday is forgotten and thrown into the past.. Sobbing violins will soundtrack the streets, with the crackling of hair and distant door creaks. Rainbows of rust shall cast cloaks of iron onto a sun absent sky and a blackening horizon. Gardens bloom spines from roots of confusion, for all the spineless decisions and a life of delusion. Swing's sing a melody from an ash covered park as carousels spin emptiness in the burnt, lonely dark.. Fragments stream alleys in a solitude waltz, of needles and wire, of powder and bolts. Flushed are the landscapes of their canvas colours and wrung are the stars of their luminous drip, As moments of silence seep through in and out, hope is engulfed by terror licked lips. As the bitterness of winter chills night into a coma, glimmers of summer are lost in a blizzard. Frost covered towers scrape the air in a screech forming patterns of anguish on the skeletal beach. Moans of misfortune fill the meadows and the forests into a charcoal haze of sarcastic mist. While trees lay strewn and smoke climbs the sky, ruins haunt remains of evening's burnt. In an age of the ending, no leader nor law, where war turns to peace, and peace turns to war. Shattered are the memories of lives once lived, puzzled and scattered, and tossed to the wind. When the clappers in the bells have wrung their last ring, angelic choirs will no longer sing, When the mouths on the mountains have sighed their last sigh, they'll inhale the trees, they'll drink the oceans dry.