Death of the Eve

The gentle crack of kindling,
The silent swirl of smoke,
Aromas sweet and sour
Sift thought the well-worn cloak.

The books that lay asunder
Tell tales of legends true,
But none so quite enthralling as
The ones that we'll live through.

The clock now heralds midnight,
The chimes ring loud and clear,
And as it ends its mournful cry
'Tis known the hour's here.

The fire turns to ashes,
Though no one's there to see,
For now's the time for answers,
And what will be will be.