Follicle strands remain unkempt but why bother. Certain cries of calling fall tragically on deaf ears awaiting jurisdiction feeding lies off of cardboard boxes and tin cans of lager. An inferior delegate reminds them all of the burden and falls back into the slump, carrying the unbearable weight of its stigmata. Frail as snow as a timid, old woman in her nineties finds herself in a garden of make-believe unhampered by its formulaic occurrences, a sort of accepted norm that is dominant all throughout that make-believe space governed by make-believe smiles, sharing the feeling of nostalgia with the leaves and the feathers. She clings to the wall like an arachnid and drinks something from a flask like an amphibian drooling for its greens or hay. Smirking from a distance, sly flower frees herself from the shackles of dismay exhibiting all manners of rebellious spirit. Impressive at her age, no matter how fickle. She spawns the good and the beauty to give, like it was her own to spawn, a mother image to the well-being of the sickness and the child whose legs were then spread to give glory to its standing. Undeterred by personal opinion she suffers and suffers some more, struggling against a lost cause. The time comes when her other senses will finally find her. Her love will then be multiplied tenfold.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.