Somewhere in a dusty corner lies a memory of you. Neatly folded into a perfect square. Tucked away precariously amongst identical pages of denial. Sometimes, it threatens to burst into flames. But layers of conceit (both yours and mine) douse it. Effectively. One of these days I will bury it deep enough
Let’s paint these walls red, With the blood of our dead. Of the lost and wounded, the sad and depressed. Let’s paint that chair green, With the leaves of the trees. The trees cut down, every day, week, month, year.
Her ashen face, Was forever concealed in her hand. The prospect of the land beyond the cloud, Forever being fantasized in her head. Alienation and estrangement consuming her. Many thought she was almost as good as dead. The ignorant blurs