The scorching sun

continues

to rise,

shine,

set.

As if

trying to remind men

of some

twisted

sad

irretrievable past.

But,

the men

have long gone,

in search of wine and shade.

And they’ve found a place

of some song

and some

trade.

And now

all surround

the goose made of gold,

while eggs of gold are bought

and eggs of gold

are sold.

While in a dusty corner,

the hungry caged bird

finally ceases

to sing

even though her

once captivated audience

has long stopped

listening.

For

even the

blinded fools

need something

to gape and gawk at

And her dark, unruly

blood-red mane of hair

tumbles freely around her frame

in a slow caress so seemingly warm

that the entire slowly-turning room

that she has quietly wandered into

suddenly seems to be made of

falling snow and frozen ice

and the coldest things

that have ever been

known to man since

the first ever

storm.

Meanwhile

someone has stolen

the great golden goose,

plucked up from right under their noses

And the

naive princess of sin

knowing not what begins,

instead spends all her time chasing roses.

Every day has its price,

every truth drowns in lies

Every rock pales to naught, besides dark Obsidian

Every memory has its ties

Every last man shall die

But, I think peace can only be found in true Oblivion.