I

Little lights

Too bright

I cry

tick, tock
II

Story.

Want more story,

I like story.

I want mommy,

Don’t like daddy.

tick, tock
III

Stories of a monkey king and three kingdoms, told with ten thousand voices from a porcupine chin, puts me to sleep every night. 

tick, tock

IV

Red, green, and white

paint a dark canvas with strokes of dazzling color.

Little lights twinkle,

merry bells jingle.

I must rest early,

For a fat, old man 

will come down the chimney

this cold winter night.

And when I wake tomorrow,

before the familiar ball of yellow,

perhaps I will find

a warm ball of fur

under the glowing evergreen

as someone sings

of a partridge in a pear tree.

tick, tock
V

I called out to Him.

Day and night, 

season after season,

He was my Sun,

and my life revolved around Him,

waiting for an answer.

tick, tock
VI

The little lights ahead

locked in a slow dance 

between red, yellow, and green

as a newborn vernal sky weeps,

thrumming to the beat of the drum.

And the notes that wash over me,

as tender strings tickle my ears,

make me wonder

if I am the only one

who feels this

fist that 

clenches 

my heart.

With an exhale,

the glass blurs,

streaked with angry tears

from the heavens up above.

tick, tock
VII

The monkey king has been slaughtered,

and the mighty kingdoms have fallen.

The fat man who climbs 

down the chimney

has fallen into the fireplace.

Ashes scatter

and he is forever gone.

tick, tock
VIII

The summer sun smiles over the bridge,

piercing through aerial dust bunnies

as I reach out toward

the strands of hair that 

disappear over the railing.

Only more follow,

And I am alone again. 

tick, tock
IX

tick, tick FORGET tick, tick, tick, tick, tick,

tock

X

The wind 

breathes silently, 

murmuring its secrets, 

its fears, 

its doubts to me,

like you all did.

And I breathe along, 

whispering wistful words 

to remnants of the past. 

With a deep inhale,

the scent of a gray sky

fills my head. 

Up ahead, 

seven faint silhouettes stroll together,

sounds of joy drifting like fallen leaves

through the cool autumn breeze.

And with the wipe

of a single tear,

they disappear.

To weep

is a great gift.

tick, tock
XI

Where is He?

The lights only dimmed, and I realized

I am the only Him,

the sun of my life.

And who I thought as Him—

no, 

who I wanted to think was Him,

has been nothing but him this whole time.

he too, like the fat man,

has turned to ash—

the plaything of a fragile mind, 

fabricated to fathom the unfathomable.

tick, tock
XII

At the end of it all,

I stand.

Specks of white 

interrupt 

deep, infinite celestial fabric.

Those little lights

that shine tonight—

a wonderful night,

into which

I nearly took flight.

But what is beauty

when no one sees it?

We chase after the light,

but none can reach it.

We toil day and night,

to become forsaken stars

of our own delusions.

The stories we write for ourselves

and for others,

turned to stardust,

when no one is left to remember.

Our wishes upon a star,

someday snuffed out.

Every spark of laughter,

every constellation we forge,

every precious memory that burns bright,

all just another dot of white

on a boundless, black expanse.

No one can count all the stars.

tick, tock
I

Another cycle begins,

another generation

of sunshine smiles that brighten the world,

of perennial streams that flow from glassy orbs,

of angry flames that rage within.

Dead, 

dried up, 

smothered

by ticking hands.

They have ticked

since the powder-red bison appeared in the caverns,

when he dragged that wretched log up Golgotha,

as microscopic ocean mines 

stripped my world of color.

But eventually,

the ticking will stop,

and those beautiful little lights

will someday fade away.

Everything will cease to exist,

and nothing ever existed.