The Last Thirteen Minutes,

they drip and cool like darkest candle wax.

~

The clock on the wall ticks and tocks it way to eternal victory.

Each second of the end are

black shadows,

sneaking forward,

progressing in soft, loveing silence

yet screaming its harsh song for all to hear

and mourn.

~

The banshee moves now,

a crooning dance

of light and death

and things better left

to the deep silence

or a chasm closed and locked.

~

Still the armies march,

the shadows seep,

the banshee wails and dances.

~

The few minutes left

have become fewer still.

The weeping dies,

yet rings loud and true.

~

Memories come,

unbidden

but loved

as they come.

The life that clings,

flashes like dew on the new morning grass.

~

The sun has yet

to set,

to leave us forever.

We will wait for its cherished return.

~

The Apple lies in the grass,

wondering what it has done wrong.

~

The fewer minutes become fewer still.

The sadness dwindles as it grows ever stronger.

~

The wax of a candle hardens,

yet is soft.

The wax was once warm,

but that stage passed

both a century

and a second ago.

~

The clay figure is

crumbling into lightest dust,

softest memory.

~

Slowly the life fades,

the breath dies,

the heart slumbers for all eternity.

~

The candle's flame stutters and dies,

it's last bright thirteen minutes gone like

smoke in the wind...