The forest was shrouded in moon drops,
Golden for the sake of a bird’s blue egg.
A crack from a twig or the indigo shell,
Either foretold of death or glory.
The moon gave it a long crested vision,
Like a ghost clock;
Unable to concentrate on perplexity.
Would the wind carry the howls of the dying,
or the cries of a new morning?
Twisting curving roots that surround to escape,
hidden truth inside their souls and rings.
Destiny is a fictional game,
What is the story the shrill sings?
A animated demise is always the martyred tale,
But what of death in rebirth?
The egg shell cracks and reveals the truth,
Of a strong will or broken generation.
The crack echoes throughout the forest,
The moon sits high upon a judge’s eye.
Does a beast tread softly between painted wooded sculptures?
Or will their be a wings to crucify?
The solution of martyrdom of the story of life,
That he tasted death to recycle it?
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.