Tiny Yellow Men

My dance with Death has ended.

No longer does she cradle my sumptuous body

in her cold embrace;

Free am I from the feral hounds that once rent apart my fragile mind.

In despair's deepest pit, where neither moon nor sun cast light,

Six lone stars shone upon me;

A hope for the hopeless, no matter how forlorn.

A single constellation guided me from the murky depths of depression's deadly quagmire.

Six noble souls plucked me from Death's grip

and journey we did through life's toughest trial

until the stars did multiply.

O, how numerous and brilliant they were;

I beheld a magnificence unfathomable,

a sight gone unseen for many years.

Betwixt the thorny underbrush I crawled, spirited by the light.

My strength renewed, bolstered by years of suffering;

Hope once again made its home in my heart;

And, at last, I could see beyond myself,

beyond the tribulations made trivial by my newly acquired iron will.

The rain pours, making its gentle hum, as I listen to sad songs that remind me of love unrequited.

My pen dances upon paper, stroke after lovely stroke, while the apple of my eye watches:

An army of tiny yellow men brought to life by my own hands whose eternal struggle lets me reminisce about my own past strife.

My room grows cold, and the lights grow dim.

I am drawn to slumber, comforted by the eternal vigilance of those tiny soldiers composed of plastic and paint.