The Beauty of a Flower

We sigh as the morning fades, the sun making its slow climb by the well-worn route to its Zenith. You say you could reach it.

The land a mist, a heavy dead weight, a veil. The trees like sudden black peaks that punch through, knives. You say we could run through it all, and be free.

We cry as I say no, it can never be. The air is a vice of coldness. It enters my lungs like a cloud of a million such frozen shards.

My body has lost any desire to be warm. Instead the heart just beats it weak rhythm to the joke of it all. You show me the path, but all I see is faces in dark towers lining it.

You say you could take me and run, run, run, run with the wind and the river and the rain and dark tor pouring past.

And my heart rattles, an insincerity, a laughter within my very chest. It is a ghost. It says no, no, no, it can never be.

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