The borderline of chaos, the imaginary bliss of hell.
I sit in my garden with the wind speaking in my ear, ever so softly;
The leaves are waving and dancing on the wind, following an endless masquerade.
And I am a part of it as well - the mask
I'm wearing grew in on my face, and
I can't seem to take it off.
Just like them, I'm following the seemingly meaningless parade.
The sun has hit low bottom and the day is no more, all to be seen is the flashback of the better days,
with the same orange sky.
Sitting under the same tree.
Yet with every second, the leaves are closer to crumbling and stumbling across an obstacle.
But not you.
You've already hit rock bottom.
And your end is coming near.
But for the first time, after so many tries because you've been convinced otherwise, you catch a glimpse of something.
A light in this melancholy and agony.
The end is near, yet there is more to come.
For you, you've tried your best.
And it's the only thing that ever counts.
