Kaleidoscope

The Cage

"Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, yet signifying nothing." ~ Macbeth

Tears fall, like diamonds showering down upon the shards of a shattered dream, within the chaotic life of a broken girl.

Look through the desolate eyes of the girl, trapped within a fortress of forgotten words, whose innocence has been stolen. Think her thoughts. Feel her pain;and view things from her perspective. The same girl who wanders through her labyrinth of unwanted memories and deceased dreams.

She seems quiet; reserved- yetis this just her nature, or the morbid result of the hardships forced upon her?

You see her smile, and you hear her laugh. What you fail to see are the silent, burning tears that are shed secretly from the scared, red-rimmed eyes. You do not hear the deafening cacophony of chaotic thoughts that continuously plague her racing mind.

And you do not know how night after night, when she eventually does manage to fall asleep, she's abruptly awakened soon after by nightmares which have quickly turned into reality.

These dreams are undeniably real.

She lives by them, unable to find any possible means of a desperately needed escape.

The only sanctuary she may have once known has long ago denied her, fast becoming an unwanted, detested enemy: Sleep.

It has ceased to hold any form of comfort for her, nor does it offer even the false promise of sweet oblivion. Instead, it's evolved into an earthly version of hell, replaying her fears and distorting them so that they appear all the more horrifically worse in reality.

She cannot run. She cannot hide.

All she can do- all that she's forced to do- is succumb to the inevitable, all the while hoping and praying for some unknown saviour and salvation to come, but which shall never exist.

The world offers no saving grace; no sign of help. Why is this so?

It seems we're like falling leaves, unimportant and ignored, save for when the world clears us up and desserts us into a pile of forgotteness.

We're swept up and away; and then, when the wind blows us around, scattering the fragile remnants of our hollow selves, we're dealt a mortal blow.

But only to be gathered up again and dumped with the remains of a shattered, wasted, broken and forgotten life.

The reason that we're cleared up is due to the stagnant fact that we are considered nothing but a mess: Untidy and a nuisance.

But they don't see the true beauty which we possess. They don't acknowledge the true depth and emotion that has gone into our creations.

They see only that we be removed, like weeds from a garden, so that they may carry on living the façade of their picture-perfect lives.