The Ghost Clock

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?