Clouds are like photos
Displaced by the wind
In an endless, seemingly abyss of a room
Of unfamiliar faces.
Accidentally forgotten memories,
Promises unkept,
And oaths unbroken.
Life is the little *** that holds the clouds.
The cuts, the scars.
The turnabouts based on pale emotions.
The flowers are wilted and the vase is
What it is.
What it always will be.
Broken, and broken,
Mended
Or just barely there at all.