Where Time Sleeps

Burnt ceilings, fall-out paints, play witness to the gone lives of the silent lands.

Desolation lingers, stark and wide among the rusted railings, dented knives, and un-ticking clock hands.

He sits still in his abandoned manor, ill-fitted for the home of the dawning heirs,

Resembling a relic from the past, a dying sea's weakly wave, like worn-out chairs,

Among the dark, damp autumn leaves perched on the swing,

He searches for the lost burning ages, the memories of her giggling.

Her blue dress and claret-red hair twirled and twisted with the cold moor air.

How alive it was when she made the wildflowers bloom and the nightingales glare.

But faces blur, the flowers die beneath the ground, and the lost echoes sway.

The moon lies far, the clock ticks no more, and a surrendering final breath stays.

The snowdrops turn blue, the pages grow pale, as night consumes his days.