My Black book of Poetry.
Chapter I : Existence
We are but specks of dust,
Composing molecules of sand,
Upon the beach of Life,
Within an hourglass.
Upon a dusty shelf,
Fixed upon a decaying wall,
Creating an empty room,
Within a house of mirrors,
Where Time resides.
Time itself is a hooded man wearing a cloak of stars and flames,
His face a mirror of mortality and immortality,
His movements shifting, existing, disappearing.
Time is fleeting, dying yet endless,
The clock will soon strike thirteen and ultimately
The end shall come, when Time dies.
But until then,
We will keep spinning,
We shall keep hoping,
We'll keep living in our mythic world.