Seasons

Time and time again, there comes a moment where the flame meets a quiet end. The bird circles around the sun and burns his wings in a shimmering fire. Death grins with pearly teeth, grinding down the sand of time and sweeping clean the earth’s darkened grime. In my moment, when the twitch is off, all lights return to my wandering soul. Who gets to decide my last parcel of truth? The Reaper yawns and points at me. He hums a tune that knows no end and burns my wings to an infinite fire. As death comes to the smallest heart, even then, the wind comes to a final calm. And thus the roaming eye is tightly zipped behind my melting lids and broken hands; waves of long goodbyes permeate the land.