In my field of imaginary flowers,
I lay inside myself for hours,
watching black tainted raindrops fall
onto my cold dry face as I call
for my soul to return back,
So that I can escape from this bitter black.
I am so tired of lingering in the doorway,
while with me my memories will not stay.
As the wind whispers through the trees,
emptiness fogs out the pleas
of silver lined clouds
wrapped in paper shrouds,
Once again longing to be free.
But now I can see
that neither they nor I will be.
