The oil was golden yellow,

It's appearence was anything but mellow,

It boiled in golden bubbles,

Turning the cold to rubble,

In it's beauty, I forgot, or rather,

I didn't know it's ferociousness.

Fading notes of childhood long gone,

Owing to the oncoming storm,

Oncoming storm in all its rage,

Dying melodies strongly engage.

For the songs you sang float with the wind,

Old memories your voice, it brings,

Reveling in stolen joy,

Times spent in a pretty ploy.

Happiness is in everything you see,

Entering and as quickly it does flee,

Save some for the next day,

Or you might lose your way.

Until the song ends, don't you,

Leave my side, although a few

Seconds is the only thing due.

As writers, we inspire.

As writers, we save.

As writers, we empathize.

If we let ourselves down,

Who'll help the others?

Square your shoulders,

You gotta save the world.

Sunrises can't compare to,

The happiness on my mother's face,

Her endearing ways remind me

Of stars in the night sky.

If I could then I would

Spell her name with the stars,

Maybe the rush of joy I feel,

Is how it feels to fall like the stars.

The fabric of the universe,

Cut with scissors of time.

The fabric of hate,

Cut with scissors of love.

The fabric of reality,

Cut with scissors of mirrors.

The fabric of death,

Cut with scissors of life.