The night was distant, the moon’s silver waves spilled,
A wandered stood by a hut, carving words onto a scroll.
The time had ended,
The sea had sung the final words,
The cocoon’s voice no longer roamed,
As the bell transcended, throughout, its final toll.
The air that had once stirred,
With emotions, advices, heartfelt voices,
Had now gone cold,
From luminous to as black as coal.
Now, although a future lied waiting,
The past was going, out of grasp, control,
No words could describe the feeling,
Which outgrew panicking.
Now, although the time was drawing to a close,
The remnants still came back rushing,
Feeling that outstretched hand,
That guided the wayward wanderer onto the path.
The wanderer stood listening to the empty cocoon,
Filled with voices now gone,
Seeing the flashbacks,
Play by play.
Now, although a word he could not write,
To express a feeling, he could not express,
To show that cherished were these the wanderer’s time,
To say that that light feeling was eradicating.
He ignored the cries to give up on the thing,
And wrote he did as a token of appreciation.