And still the eight-spoked wheel turns.....

The clock ticks on.
The sand in the hour-glass runs short,
And still we smile insanely
As if time has no meaning.

We are blind to the shrivelling of the white rose,
And tears fall like the stained petals.
Barely a bud, and faded from life.
The white flourish reaches towards the sun,
And is withered by it's harsh glare.
Just as I am killed off
By the very thing I have so desperately grasped for.

The nine woods burn like ice,
And the ground seems to shift beneath my feet,
As a feather drops clumsily, maiming my toes.
Wheat grows in spirals around my head, making me dizzy.

Holographic images flash in my mind,
And empty thoughts burst as I run.
Runfrom the strobe of floresence.
Into the deep thick darkness.

Gone.

And still the eight-spoked wheel turns.