Pens and Pages

Blind eyes of the night, Half a moon to gaze at, Half a moon to cry for. She steps on broken hearts, Pieces of fierce glass That used to be mirrors. She walks a little too close To the burning walls of hell. The gates will burn too; The fire can no longer contain The wave of iced hearts. She picks the broken pieces Till her fingers bleed, Till those walls turn to ashes. She steps on the ashes, Till they embrace the ground Till one can no longer tell Ashes from the soil. A slow death, she says, Is the cure to all pain. And her last world is  Now ash, soil and blood. She flies to a new world, Of iced hearts and blind eyes. Half a moon to gaze at, Half a moon gazing back.

The star that burned Into ashes today Was once the star Of his mother's death. And the same ball of fire, She had seen When he was born, She'd made a wish. And now that you pick The stardust lying On the cold hard ground, You call it special, You call it lucky. But he picks the same And calls it dirt. So, what's its name, In this ephemeral world, Where identity changes And names don't last?

From ages, beaten, rotten, He rises from his own ashes. He touches the skin, venomous, Of the one who had breathed the fire. He burns bright, with envy, With all the hatred within. The skin bleeds and wails On the mummified corpse Of its own sins- Its past deeds. The past rises high And swallows the dead eyes first. The skin, once venomous, Lies at the mercy of its own reflection. Justice, they say, Takes a long time to act... But, they can only heave a sigh When they finally see The Time isn't as far As it seemed to be...