Sharp daggers ripping into the jawline of a motherly soul,
tearing the seems of a perfectly knitted lifeline of red thread.
We gaze at the beautiful clouds above us,
even if they are the darkest shade of blue and grey.

It hurts before the grey, the colours dripping away,
down the pavement into the drains where they stay.
The palette in the sky splashes and twists,
it twists more than the pain in my side.

Fiction isn't real my mind taunts me angrily,
but fiction becomes real if we just imagine a little longer.
For the fragments of make-believe become reality,
Don't believe me? Look around you.