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Poem

Written: March 05, 2025 

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As the final petal droops
upon quivering leaves,
while the soul begins to decay
akin to the evening lights 
fading into a coffin.
Tears flow quietly across vacant rooms,
sheltered in the hidden retreat, 
of a hapless fool folly.
Aged and forsaken, an ancient blade lies 
on a ragged oak table.
All around the termite-ridden 
floorboards are strewn with 
tattered sheets of stories.
Valiant voices of victory,
vibrate in vivid verses,
preserved with lively Ink. 

Decades of disarray have faded away, 
leaving behind a cherished tale, 
its inked revelations whirl into a frenzy, 
as I peer through the glass, 
reminiscing about those golden days
when my youth overflowed with joy. 
I couldn't assist but notice
the drooping scarlet dahlias.
A gleaming golden crown, 
sparkling with lovely 
crimson queens 
rests upon the head of a forlorn exile—
and that is all that remains.  
Under the relentless sun   
that preys upon the flames, 
how can I rise above 
the crimson chaos 
that encroaches at the edges, 
surrounding the ghostly grave 
of the poetic soul 
I have lost in the quest for acclaim.  
 
Within the weeping window, 
a wild wonder reveals itself, 
draped in a vivid shade of vermilion.  
Amid the whispers of wayward spirits, 
the flawless porcelain of our past 
now bears unsightly marks.  
Fractured dreams are embellished 
with delicate threads, while shafts of 
sunlight slices through shadowy skies.  
The family fortress, 
frozen in cold stone, 
waits for its wary wanderer, 
beckoning the illustrious 
to traverse its dimly paths.  
In the serene silence of slumber, 
the sorrowful saga emerges.  

The embrace of eternal sleep.  
A chilling chronicle of the collapse 
cascades in the corridors 
akin to a haunting harmony.  
The aspiration and avarice  
ultimately overwhelmed us  
As the clock chimed cheerfully 
at midnight on that chilling night, 
the cunning usurper brandished 
a blade and brutally 
broke their beings, 
birthing ghosts of grim, 
unspoken words to weep 
behind weathered walls.  
At this moment, I am 
the emerald evening 
of the early dawn, 
The waxen white wick 
that waits before their 
weathered tombstone is 
withered to a whisper.
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