• The Coming of The Crimson Dawn
    A symbol of all that has gone.

    The light is pink at the edges,
    It blazes across the field,
    And over the hedges.

    People lie asleep,
    As the world begins to breathe.
    The natural rhythm to a celestial beat.

    Emotion burns and flickers out,
    As Lovers dream,
    And Philosophers submit to doubt.

    This is the dawn of paintings,
    Of poetry and love,
    Of a million written and spoken words,
    A morning of things to come.

    Nestled on the horizon is a song bird that longs to sing,
    Buried in its chest is the pleasure of melody it wants to bring.
    Can you smell the moisture and the heavy dew that drops?
    See how the sun blazes brighter and the rays that never stop?

    Wandering in heaven some where far away from here,
    Is the knowledge that makes everything clear.
    Balancing the grains of sand is time,
    The muses create images of things to find.
    Music weaves consciousness into view,
    Reality has the claim to very few.

    Life pulses in the rosy light,
    While death had flickered in the starry night.
    Love, like so many years gone by,
    Brings a heart breaking fondness and a lonely sigh…

    The Crimson Dawn burned and then smoldered out.
    Leaving the taste of love, anger, and doubt.
    Now all that remains,
    Are pictures in frames…
    Of mornings long ago,
    And the shadows of things held below.