Turbulent Times

A tree standing alone with
It’s withered leaves and a
Broken clay pot,
Lying under its bower
A candle without a wick,
Still burns and struggles
To pass through the night,
Crispy pages of a book ruffled
With no one left behind to read,
The letters and words, with all that
Imagery and knowledge
Are fading away, in the wind
And in some parallel world
No one saw these agile
Motions of my withered body
On this blackened snow, the conflation of Charcoal and ash, with no sign of Sun, can’t see the clouds either Passing through these turbulent times. Here the wind howls and hisses,
As someone had returned
The keys of all the treasures
To wolves and snakes,
Leaving behind the trials and
Signs of destruction,
Birds squeaking and foretelling
These events that’ll lead to destruction,
And with a single swipe,
Everything fell into the silence,
And these untreated love bites turned Into cancer, with an uneasy calm Spreading throughout the length and Breadth of this mystic land, Plundered and destroyed by a satyr, Flame from the wick is still alive, Letters, words, imagery, and knowledge From the book is retained by men of Great Honour, and their single spark Will disseminate passion for Sovereignty.