I can smell the sorrow
Tragedy's hand has clasped over this forest.
What makes you weep forest?
Have you lost something, Forest?
Wings spread, they seem to swallow the sky, the parting of jaws as if to gorge upon the moon, her paws raise, too-spindly fingers lengthening from the claws, tracing the pale sphere, as one would the cheeks of a newborn child.
Moon that she can never reach.
head, tilting.
What has been lost?
hands that should not exist rest upon the ground, delicately pluck poppies from their nests, the petals
tear
they always do, no matter how careful she is, they always
break
the useless flowers are dropped.
universe consuming wings lift above her, how she would love to take the moon with her, but she cannot.
The rain is left to sprint down her feathers to their deaths upon the ground, consumed by the poppies she loves.
Poppies she cannot pick.
The tattered petals rest at her pawed feet.
She is alone in her sanctuary.
Just her and her poppies.
Poppies that she can only break.
Her and her memories.
Memories that can only break her.
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hm, interesting
Thanks '3'