When does this life, we have known,
Become a burden; not ours to own?

Floating in the air
as a moth to the flame,
when he arrived here.
It was never the same,
as he spoke in riddles,
when people gathered around.
His words that he uttered
were very unsound.
"Pay to me your homage,
pay every day or I will
turn this World into pain."
He had no compassion
for woman or man
and lies and stealing was
his primary plan.
Tell them what they want to hear
but do not deliver or keep your word
and soon they will make a King out of you.

Must I be the way I am?
Can I change my being?
Must I walk this road alone?
Going through life, not seeing?

The fire has died now,
burning all the logs
into embers.
Crackling of wood,
cooling,
echoes through the room,
while noises of the
dishwasher, cycling,
increasing intensity,
drowning out my memories.