"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles."
Charlie Chaplin
Pillows scattered across the floor, teared apart.
All that is left of the symbol of comfort
Are feathers.
Feathers of birds of future and hope descend
Down to the ground, but it's not solid essence.
Just water.
In the far corner of the yet silent world
Clouds joining forces, painting the horizon.
All is gray.
Storm is starting and all the senses numben.
Wind throws around lifeless remnants of broken
Poor Souls.
And then thunder and lightning cut trough the dark,
Making the way out seem closer, just to mock.
Out of reach.
But those few seconds of light clear up a lot.
The reason of punishment is a new thought.
All our fault.
The weakened self crushes into coastal rocks.
No blood spills, long awaited moment stops clocks.
Our limit.