Looking out towards it all, them all, but they don't see a thing. Placing my scarred hand upon the cool glass plains of my asylum, images of the new become so vividly clear. Transparent even. These images once captivated me, engulfed me in all their joy and glory. Mountains, as high as Etna, formed from the rapturous streams of music. Rivers of saltiness taking course down youthful cheek, taking shape in the valleys and meanders of dimples. These rivers fighting against that resistant rock. Those screams of enchantment escaping innocent mouths soon turned vile. The beady snake eyes, red droplets of blood, waiting attentively to strike.
They never gave any mercy.
Just played that sly game. Day after day after day, continuing on. Oblivious. Naive instinct took over. Good intentions were the focus, masking the bitter truth.
But those days are numbered. Observing through this glass, the reality became vividly clear in the dim refracted light.
The zoo of the new has faded no, burned by their seething poisons into ashes. Ashes of what once had been the centre of joy, now dying embers fading into the wind. That defining wind. The wind that could shake even the strongest of oaks. Oaks that towered over them, the elephant in the room.
But now I just stand here, looking through this glass. These images seem so distant as the plains turned to gray.