A gigantic jag of lightning streaked across the horizon
A cascade of sparks shot into the air
Miniature fires mimicked their parents
As a tree fell shattered by force
Dead at midnight
The man moved away from the window
His face was tired and haggard
His life was being swept away
Swept away in a terrible storm
He sat down unsure of the past
Like the world outside he was being destroyed
Not openly but quietly inside him
Eating away huge chunks of his past
Devouring his life
The little old grey haired man sat
His leather chair was worn yet it was his favourite
A small wooden table was positioned close
While on top lay a crystal glass
Clean cuts lanced up its side
While inside lay his treasure
A golden malt from a good year
But his years had turned bad
And then they had turned into nothing
Lost for ever in the desert of the mind
A dry world which devours lost memories
The man turns once again to look out the window
His tired haggard face hangs down loosely
Flaps of redundant skin wave a thousand goodbyes
He perseveres to look but a dim grey clouds his dull eyes
Age has attacked like some cruel disease
A petty illness which became the warmonger
The devourer of our person
Of who we are
A significant being lives for ever more in the memories of others
Until the minds of appreciators are raped by this madman
In a savage mockery of life
But this man is not significant
And once he passes no one will remember
His cruel anger
Or his hearty laugh
The pain misery love and joy
Of life