Yearning for that happy time or place,
Like it actually existed.
It was all a dream.
You, that time, that place
Every rose has died,
That crimson red color has faded into a dismal color,
Brittle and blown away with the wind.
The image of that once beautiful, secret garden
Crumbles around me and slips through my cold fingers like sand,
How can a dreamer continue to dream when the inspiration for those dreams have left.
Now there’s scars.
They’re a reminder of that dark place, not dreams, nightmares that left her terrified and breathless.
Her inspiration has left.
The absence is felt every time the dry wind blows,
It stings like fire touching unprotected skin.
Now how can one dare to admire a person who has no admiration for their own being?
How can you look into these lifeless eyes and see hope?
There is none.
There’s nothing left but an empty vessel.
A lost soul.
I still remember everything, and I even remember the significance of today.