…the book of endings

The book of beginnings, the book of endings
they both speak of falling
revealing, that even things that fall in desolate, unreachable places
where they can never be found
can themselves, find wisdom in the wake of falling
wild buds wilting, fragile leaves drifting
shadows shifting, rain dripping
the chatter of wood birds fading into the distance
the all-seeing night, blind to so many things
lifts its dark shadowed face, searching for the light of the moon
the ominous prelude to change, the earth has touched them now
the rituals of mourning are carried in our blood
in time my heart is lost, your heart is lost
for we are the children of the dead
the devil dances in black and red
moonlight is falling in slow motion
shimmering shafts of silver, shifting in the night winds
the darkness trembles in the light
this soft intrusion, triggering the primal question of fight or flight
lucid dreaming, pale hands reaching
souls upon souls the warmth of the dead
the psychology of midnight
trying to follow my own shadow
into the shifting patterns of darkness
the incantations of the night
hushed whispers, spell casting, echoing in emptiness
silhouettes of memories, a mosaic of pain
softly shifting back and forth in the shadows of my soul
their whispers lingering
the mistress of darkness continues with her rituals
I hear the music of the wind, the bells of the night
the melodious breathing of life
but despair is a winding path where in the end, no-one can stop me
lost in the finding I have chosen flight over fight
seeking wisdom in the falling
© Ann Bagnall