No longer past the broken windows
do the blackbirds fly. Streets lit,
dim lights left desolate, as they
dissipate with dawn.
Fingers smudge grimy panes,
mixed with rain. Both soft
in their unique touch.
Visions of blowing grass
watched nevermore.
The fields wilt, cast under
death's grim spell.
Flowers ripped from earthy
beds. Turn to dust in vases.
Beauty fleeting.
Wind cast whispers asunder,
words carried to the outskirts
of their destination. Forgotten
then forever.
Curtains drawn, the city left
the only reality. Endless meadows
erased. Beauty left in memories,
them forgotten too.
Silver trophy winner
Gold trophy winner
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