Vague

Hidden within his egoic forest, facing a barren laund, he struggles to recall the name of each wilted dream he sees through the rapidly forming mist

In his pocket, his left hand lets the last seeds of hope slip carelessly through deadened fingers, before ever having a chance to blossom; vague portents each of failures yet to flourish

By his side, his right hand hangs; a noose insouciantly strangling the posy of his most cherished memories; its thorns, poisoning the once fertile soil with each vermilion drop of unabashed sorrow

He wonders why his weakness wins, while he weeps his will away

Life has yet to make him stronger, so he waits for it to kill him

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