Tiny shards of glittering glass. Clenched in vine like fingers. Working in leaf patterns on her pale white skin. Almost out of reach now.
Sparks of red washing up from the deepest, darkest reaches of anger, pain and helplessness. Mearly decaying dead roses buried deep in the thick mud of drug induced mixes of ridiculous purposes. The broken will burry the scarred.
Without a second of thought, the fallen ones will rise up on the waves of regret and heartbreak to crush the invisible foe of inevitability and trust. Drive them back with their own fear used against them. Compacted into what seems mere moments then served up on a plate in the depths of her soul. A badly prepared desert of immeasurable prophetic purpose. Now reality is real, but nowhere.
Drift. In a flurry of snow and cold accusing eyes. Down to the cave. My dwelling of duality, unrelenting terror and inescapable apathy.
Again the hand has let me drop, to plummet down into a lake of oil like tedium. And there is nothing here anymore. Nore will there ever be again.