The veins that had once carried her warmth and hope, that cared for the world, are now dried up; dust in the wind that blows in compositions of clouds that wither away, and the torrents of emotions that once rushed through her body, simple bask in their banks. There is a certain melancholy to her existence, stemming deeply from the hole of a dull, dark and soundless heart, who laments the future, yet quivers for it. She sat on shallow despondence, on the edge of an old pine bench, broken and distraught at the notion of a weary tomorrow. The constant deniable of ambivalent future, halted her judgement for a minute as she held her visions narrowly upon the remanets of an old street lamp. Her particular sense of surrounding made sure that that specific street lamp was not the only one, yet distanced itself away, as though it granted itself not criteria among its peers, not chose a life of conformity among its associates. It merely stood alone in the hollowing wind, beneath grey clouds, where trickles of water particles laid across the rusted body, aging away in the cold and reputed itself own sense of moral turmoil, although not as evident to its peers.
In the afternoon frost, the sun’s gaze shines upon me in an awesome array of waves that crash over me, yet she feels so cold inside. There I sat, lonely and unaccompanied, drifting away in my shallow melancholy and watching quietly as the last light of the dying sun wrought its ghostly ember on the ground beneath me, under my shadow, as though I was not even there, and has ceased to exist beyond further recognition, even from the sun, who recognises all it shines upon, writing in the ground, the shadow that so aptly represents me.
I would imagine at times that another hapless soul should come across my path and find themselves sharing in my dreaded despondence. During the dull, dark and soundless days, my unencumbered peer would come and hang oppressively by my side, as the clouds do near one another, offering a...