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Feb 2015
Like the blowing breeze through nestled trees, he walks through life, dirt on his knees. A boy, now a man, finally learned how to stand, and now he flees through this forest of dreams. Alone he must walk, until he finally sees, there is no home outside these trees.

A flower, picked up off the floor, reminds him of what she once wore. She was his core, his lost Lenore, who up and left right out their door, and like this flower, plucked from the floor, she would be lost forevermore.

As he keeps on through these dying trees, he steps on their rustled leaves. Each step echoes pain and agony, unified in a bitter sweet melody. She's gone, you pushed her, what you step on, was once her.

The cold draws breath that only he can see, illusions of what was, and what could be. He carries on with a heart well led, and although he is lost, he is not quite dead. Inside his head, a demon once fed, is the reason for what he once said, "be careful where you tread, for a man made of lead cannot be made to wed". With tears in her eyes, away she fled from this man who bled blue blood. Behind masks of frosted pain, he lifts his eyes and through his breath's cold lies, he sees his love once again.

In a floral dress she dances alone. Entranced by every sway and prance, his heart joins her in leaps and bounds. Captured by her sweet, sweet sounds, he can't believe what he's just found. A second chance to love what's lost, like how the sun gently lifts the frost from the ground. The earth does come back, full round again. He has come back to her as a friend, and he will love her until the very end.
Thomas Conlan
Written by
Thomas Conlan  28/M/Montreal
(28/M/Montreal)   
532
     Honna Root
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