Burnt Black Petals

Moving air.
Bird songs.
The world and your mind.

The moans of the wind rustling the world around you,
Arising questions and quelling answers as you accept.

The undertones of the bird songs sing a different meaning

Paper cranes are flying around
Fluttering in the breeze.
The smell of raisen toast
Buttered to perfection.
The click of a mechanical pencil
The glimse of a robin
The wish of me.
The wishes of me.

 I'm starting to think about escape.
It's not that I'm angry
Or bored. I'm not
Sad or afraid.
I'm just not.
The thing is, I want to play a game
A game where the stakes are as high as your life

The smell.
It's intoxicating
It makes my head lighter than it should be
It makes me recoil slightly
It makes me breath out a bit too forcefully
And it makes me close my eyes.
Waiting.
I'm waiting.
When will it stop?

I see smooth and shining silk
Twirling and wrapping and
Climbing and creeping up
Something the soft brush of a robin's back.
I see a cold, stone pole with
Gaps, and
Cracks, and
Everything in between the two

None of who I know are from the rich
Or the wise.
None of who I know are from lies
Or from truths.
We are from the gray area
Because the world is
Not
Black and white
Light and dark
No;
We are the gray area