Floating clouds 

Cold icy hands , a lean figure shrouded in black, he brings his hand forward, I could feel a smirk even behind the veil, villainous, destructing, annihilating- it doesn’t feel alien.
I walk in empty streets tracing my way across rusty street lights, hurling out smoke, dreaming of white tulips, and pink sunsets – it doesn’t feel alien .
I’m stuck on a forlorn island in a wooden hut. I can listen to the waves roaring, crashing, hitting the stones, a symphony.I close my eyes, it doesn’t feel alien .
It’s that time of the year, when the wind brings with it, the sweet smell of illusive nothingness, my mind whirls, buzzing with sweet memories of friends long forgotten and love unrequited . It doesn’t feel alien .
Hazy days and steamy coffee, here I sit wondering, trying to make sense of it all, things done, left undone, words said and left unsaid .
Another moment I’m weeping and laughing in the pouring rain trying to drown me or are they just my thoughts ? I look up and see myself sitting on the clouds with my head bent down; green, yellow, brown, blue, invisible I’m invisible to her ,no I look miniature, I tell myself . “You look miniature to her.”
I look down at my soggy legs, black dust and wet leaves. I think I should leave but it doesn’t feel alien .
I am tiny and fragile like a bubble floating around like a feather, I wonder where to land . It should be morning, the sun would rise any moment .
I’m moving at jet speed now, I race, I race I race, I am running running running .I collide into the crimson sun and rise with it, embraced by the smoke – I become whole.
I am sitting on the cloud, my auburn hair all over my face and black eyes transfixed on something; I feel alien now. Admist the silhouettes here’s where the road diverges into two – rocky dusty with the smell of sweet victory and the other which I cannot see. I dive .


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