Things have been rough for you now, hasn't it? I'm not one to talk. Let alone knows the stones to return—you for instance, may not.
So what did you do instead? I'm not one to ask.
Solitude knows best.
Tear it in half, see what's inside. Was it what you sought? Or was it another empty space of mind?
I'm not one to guess.
Perhaps things turned out different—not to your liking—but dreamers can't be whiners, you know better than anybody.
You could push on a little more, though hurdles would come more than often. Maybe look back once in a while, you know, trace back your footsteps in the sand.
Was it all in vain?
Tell me.
YOU ARE READING
Grave Roses
General FictionI'll come back with roses to lay on your grave. Perhaps, someday, the voices will leave.
