(Queue the random spurts of inspiration! I own nothing and I hope you enjoy! Good day and God bless!)
But once upon the late stroke of a mid december night,
Arthur Kirkland beheld such a chill of a freight.
Thoughts overflow as anger starts to boil,
Arthur began to wonder for whom did he go.
What was the driving force,
That drove him to try?
Who was that treasured creature,
That made an old soul understand why?
But a white snow coat
Fell fresh and silent on old wounds as his only sign.
As words to a faded ghost died in his throat,
The man realized all too bitterly, "Bloody hell…. I have no one to call mine….."
It snowed that night. It snowed hard and it snowed well just as the man called Arthur Kirkland had worked on his many papers, hard and well and long into the night.
Unfortunately, despite his efforts, despite the spirit and meaning behind his work, just as the snow outside the window of his study did, his actions and good intentions missed their mark, falling silently and effortless into an endless coat of endless white, till the day turned to night, till one intention was hardly discernible from the next, falling into an abysmal sea of thankless wasted energy, and honestly, Arthur was beginning to lose the sight of the point.
But what was the point, anyway? What was the point, Arthur wondered. Was there ever a point? Did he ever have a reason to work his days away or was it merely to pass the time, hoping that the passing time would dull the ache of the pain?
Well, it has been many years now and the man was beginning to think that tactic didn't work. The pain in his heart was still vibrant and vivid like a gunshot wound, and all he was left with now was forgotten, trivial, meaningless yesterday's he could never get back. What had happened? He had hoped his great empire could build up impenetrable walls of steel, so tall and mighty, he would always feel safe, but instead, all his friends, anyone who he even called and acquaintance had abandoned him and the empire he had taken such pride in collapsed from the inside.
From the other side of the walls, anyone who even cares anymore could not hear his screams.
But who could Arthur blame, really? Who could he really blame but himself.
He had had a dozen seconds chances, but each time, without fail, he pushed them away.
Like a child, he had foolishly hoped that, like the snow falling so gently upon the earth, turning all to a white clean slate, all his meaningless yesterday's, today's, and tomorrow's would fall clean and gentle upon his scars, allowing him to forget, allowing him at least the hope of moving on, but little did he know that those scars were gaping wounds from the blade of a knife, and crimson life blood shown through in vivid arrays of his weakness, no matter how much snow fell, no matter how many meaningless tommorows he spent, he was starting to believe it would always be this way.
So let the snow fall where it may. Let the clock spin long into the night. Let his hands turn black with the ink of the quill.
"There is work to be done." Said a voice belonging to no one, but nonetheless he listened and headed its works because dare he say it, he has no other company in the world.
But to a startled man's horror,
He beheld a sound never heard before.
A tapping on his chamber door.
Only this and nothing more,
Only this and never more,
Only this and forever more,
Never knowing for whom it for.
Only this and nothing more,
Only this and nothing more,
(To be continued?)