The stories that played in my head were none more so than a dream.
The truth gradually decaying into a fantasy.
What was once easily seen like a reflection onto glass, was now a rippling reality behind a two-way mirror.
All that was shown to me were white lies given by a black head.
A chaotic episode that was constantly on repeat.
There was no noise, but the silence was deafening.
All that was left from the bitter winter was a zephyr in the spring day.
Though as gentle and delicate it had been,
it silently carried out the pain, misery, suffering...
but also the joy and laughter of the past.
It moves on with each new day, each flicker of light,
each flower. And so I follow.