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Spectral bands beat out a funeral march and
The chill whistle of decay pierces through the ears of the lonely.
There is a scuttle of life at the cold, barren feet,
Of crisped leaves, rotten and curling.
They scurry across the floor, their espionage going unnoticed,
The focus too great on understanding,
Forgetting the small things.

Relentless rain all day long, soaking the world
Like little submarines basking in their watery graves.
The clouds are grey, swirling and burling,
Gathering on mass in the thick black sky.
They are drawn to death like lovesick moths,
Blinded by false beauty and paying a
Fiery reparation.

But a small patch of hope has just broken through.
Hope; the glimmer of it as good as any drug-
Keeps everything hooked in its inescapable tentacles,
Poisoned with naivety and the gutting of desire.
Its diamante hooks slice into raw expectation,
And no matter how many times it deceives,
We find ourselves always coming back for more.

But for a moment, a tiny crack in the impenetrable
Clouds appears, and it spreads like a disease,
Through the bleak blanket of layered mist.
A convict beam of sunlight has managed to escape
And thinly flows towards the earth.
Its golden rays, sickly sweet in such surroundings
Cause the world to stop. An undervalued
Moment of silence.

The small things flit along unnoticed, while
We battle with the wiles of Time,
Who is only as lonely as the rest of us,
If not the most lost of us all.