willufndus

The cityscape's so beautiful you'd never Have imagined that you've been there before. The days are white but The nights are brighter. The birds are there but They don't seem real. The note drifts through the air though You're sure you'll never hear the melodies. Life is a play and you'll share The same name, three lifetimes over. The one you hate is the only one Who loves you. Who will ever. The city is alive with a million lights That you've been missing all this while. The people and places are not As you once knew them to be. Your heart may bleed for All that it sees. Hears. What is and was ceases To be as it is. As they

They are elusive things, these wisps made of both illusions and memory. Somewhere in the little-needed portions of the mind in which they reside, miniature realms that Morpheus himself has planted like seeds into Demeter's fertile land bearing the fruit of imagination.

They are doomed to a pseudo-life of tragedy under your pen with its ominous tip hovering dangerously over all-too-white paper that is bound to stain in the next few seconds - And with that pen you celebrate the (false) lives of them who you are writing and their shadows which will imprint themselves in your eyes, your mind, your hand, your pen - And page by page you take care to break their hearts and their spirits as they make the distinction from their past selves which we deem growing - (But is it really?) They play out a life of still, silent marionettes, each a slave to the puppeteer's hand and the destinies that have bee

The sound of white. The sight of spices. The feel of fire. The smell of birdsong. The taste of sunset.

The shrikes carry a story that the robins don't, like the old men who sit around a table at the coffee shop, drinking their coffee and whistling to their pets. In their small flighty minds they may possess some hidden knowledge. Those which do are old and battered, and have seen enough sights to know that weariness does not last. Perhaps some day they may find a way to communicate this knowledge to these alien robin friends of theirs. And yet when that day comes the group of old men will still sit at that same table and drink that same coffee the way they have done for decades past, because there are some things that just don't change all tha