A civilization likes to think that its legacy, whether or brick, stone, wood, or thought, will endure.
The truth is less pleasing than the pleasant lie.
But the ticking, brass skeleton of Time has no mercy.
Everything fades, everything dies.

The clock of Time ticks.
Winter.
Pipes burst, rupturing from within, ice bleeding out like blood.
Metal groans and shrivels, creaking under the strain
Of snow-blanketed glass and freezing steel.
Water turns to cold crystal, forcing cracks wider.
Blizzards blow in windows, the last barrier against the weather, gone.

The clock of Time ticks.
Spring.
Ice and snow melt, tiny rivers of water flowing from tiny glaciers.
Water trickles down through cracks, a boon to mold
Which forms fuzzy black carpets clinging to walls.
Moisture assaults wood, turning it to rot.
The smooth grey of iron changes to the flaky red of rust.

The clock of Time ticks.
Summer.
Plants bloom amid the rubble of a ruined city, dots of color in a wasteland.
Sun bleaches paint, making that which was bright dim
And making that which was dim vanish without a trace.
Fire blazes through cities, leaving only stone and brick.
Rays from the eternal sun warp and degrade plastic, two long-lived tortoises battling.

The clock of Time ticks.
Fall.
Plants die off, forming a layer of detritus on the floor.
Leaves change colors and form rugs in houses now open to the air,
The remains of the roof littering the house.
Sunlight fades, the sheltered alcoves no longer bathed in warmth.
Squirrels prepare for winter inside cupboards.

Change and decay are eternal, we are not.

-- Citrakayah

Written December 2010