I imagined in my recollection, my friend staring in awe of red clovers - as the sun let loose ruby drops of blood. Crying out like tears to be heard.
The dust settles as the orphan stares at the sun with green eyes. Green eyed jealousy stirs as she stretches to remember what its like to have parents.
All the while I am worldsβ away Spoiled, yet still stretching out my hands towards substance. I dare not speak of freedom, because I have already known of it, And thrown it away mindlessly. It even has its paid spot in some alley where itβs Slowly dissipating alongside nostalgia.
I imagine formulating lines brick upon brick but chaos conforms to life and the structure goes away.
So, I let my words and thoughts sift beyond my fingertips. Falling onto new porcelain Creativity escapes down the drain along with the dirt wrestling itself off my dry skin.
And finally I imagine skies splitting into oblivion, and rearranging gradually like a ****** Rubix Cube.