Year
Echoing across time immortal, the howls of the lost tumble down the halls.
As if transported through portal, the pell of death close to a heart sounds at the call.
The Reaper eternal has culled yet another, to heaven or hell we’ll never know.
Mother, father, friend, or brother, the glistening tears do yet show.
Pure crystalline loss, dripping like melted wax from a soon expiring candle.
Immortalized forever in the heats of those they loved, forever struggle to attain a handle.
The primal cry of a soul rent, the animality of a soul horrendously bent.
Open is the wound that is never truly healing. Oh, The primality of the wretched abyssal feeling.
So pens the poet Erak’el, in memory of the dearest lost. A descriptive of pain that may be felt by not just one… but all who share the blessing of humanity.
The metaphor of loss as "pure crystalline" and "dripping like melted wax" powerfully illustrates the fragility and permanence of sorrow, likening it to something beautiful yet painful.