No talking, no whispers, no anything of note not even song or prayer or gentle judgement, nothing sacrificed in honour of the rain that falls.
Flowers melted into spiteful subterranean and ground hollow in its mess but glorious and free forevermore. The pain of sorrow, the tears on cheeks but no sobbing heard, no anything of sound beneath what just you see.
The words, the colours all gasped and figured in patterns light and lifted into brighter moons but still not right, still not taken from its safer home for a few waiting walks with the ever lasting end in sight. See everything, feel everything but hear nothing…
The deafness of life to you be a blanket covered in the fuel of sharper imagined shrines. To us we see a poor man walking in the long sad days of a wasting soul lost in the darkness of passing time.