I  was a funeral pyre for there disillusions. All arched in collective
fragmentation of what transpired within the variation of echoes that
collected upon them. Like voices on a beach of shells shattering harmoniously they fell like sheets cleaved from a washing line.

I just looked, my voice rippling across the street of what I was perceiving, they were now not mesmerised by the effigy of
my features but know they fled. Neither walking but unattached
to what was perceived. Their stares blank cavities of nothingness.

Wondering within what could be perceived as a pastel painting,
things where they were meant to be, but!!
Slightly
              out of focus, windows were like breath had been woven
within there frame of reflection. Random verses collected then
like a candle they were melting into the mist collecting till nothing.

The focus of my mind was that it wasn't just the images of aged personality woven with the fabric of this place but images of
children in happiness then contorted within what could be perceived
as loneliness. they walked alone hand out like in a needing of
what couldn't be complicity conceived.

Some were against formations  of what were perceived as walls,
but looking upon them, more like memories coalescing  into tight
collects. Were these the structures of lives lived not formed into
a accumulation  of reflections? I bent down to talk to these echoes
of what i perceived as children and they cried memories on my palms.

**To Be Continued