Miracles Aren't Real

Haunt

My death was black and white,

cold, icy to the touch

silent, as my vision swam with darkness

The clock stopped ticking, its final thrum

like a drowned out tide

But the life,

the life was was a magic of sorts,

bursting with colors as it shattered, and rebuild,

over and over again before my eyes

all I could do is watch as it passed,

like a ghostly circus, arriving for one fateful night

Death hurt the least,

where as living was the struggle,

an endless trial and bother

Rebirth as the bitter-sweet,

the awakening, reopening of a dull, tired soul

tears forced upon the joyless.

It was the birthday candles that you blew out,

atop a frosted cake,

the blind hope as all scars erase

from memory,

The ignorant bliss before the tribulations began......