MISTS OF SORROW swirl inside the cavity of her soul. Gray, feathery, and insubstantial, it clIngs to every thought, every action, like a web that serves no purpose. There is no nutritious food to catch from sadness.
Leaning against her pillows, she gazes out into the rainy sky. Silver tears plummet onto the cold wet ground. Snow mixes with mud. A cloudy haze blots out the sun. Residue of frost wilts uselessly over green charcoal grass.
The world is melting apart, as if it does not quite know what it wants. How she knows that feeling.
Written: 12 Jan 2016