Story of Old

Shimmering amber gems

Not well acquainted with the valleys

Through soft petals of velvet

Awakening primitive dreams

She believes, she daftly believes

That something old and crooked

Can align, wherefore, to something true

Those shallow eyes lack a seasoned soul

In the sunrise, her ideals are conjured

To dance to a farce of a life

Despite the monsters of the dark

Monsters of ravaged wisdom that tear

At her dreams all day

She stops, she hopes, she listens

Tracing archaic paths of yore

That failed novices before her evermore

Eyes full of sage weigh upon her, disappointed

Lost in surreptitious mirages only a novice would believe

A voice she hears only selectively, on the whim of a wind

For its warnings and admonishing are much too bitter to bear

She has traveled at the end of the string

And the days of warm familiarity are suddenly over;

A brash and whipping chill surrounds her soul

There is no path over the cliff

There are no signs, no omens, or advice in the abyss..

Shimmering amber gems they once were

Spilling over with enlightenment and passion

In its place, now: dark and brooding stones

Weighing heavy on her face, mourning misguided steps of the past

The storm carries on without respite

No sunlight to beckon, no night to cease fire

Yet the story of old forever plays, proven and tired.