PastelOphelia
Empty, Hollow halls.
Scattered paper and scattered breath.
Loose knots of thread and wood lay scrambled along the derelict floors,
and the tiny sounds of scurrying feet of mice and other vermin echo among the eerie air of this dilapidated building.
Overwhelming sadness, and endless joy.
So compelling, yet so grotesque.
Oh the humour of it all.
Where dreams come to die.
A strict way of life, overbearing and restricting.
Only few managed to grow tall enough to reach the suns rays.
Our cold, broken shells,
left in the shadow of their glory.
Oh how disheartening,
We are the average, the suffering, the lonely.
How much blood must be spilt to appease the crowds?
A rhetorical question.
My apologies.
For it was our fault from the beginning.
We were far too mundane, unskilled and unloved for you to notice.
Did you even glance?
Did you notice the stains?
Ignorance is bliss, even if it is manufactured.
So blare out the anthems that will drown out the truth,
with the lies they spill how can you make time for anything other...
This feeling is warm and hard to grasp,
could it be nostalgia?
Or is that a feeling reserved only for the happy.
Again I'm sorry...
To even return was an issue from the beginning,
we should not stir the ghosts of the past.
Even if we have scars from the damage.