The audacity of fate paints the walls with malachite. The chandelier turns slow in loops of green.
Gathered stains on the tablecloth—promises mashed into oblivion. Are we not the rightful heir to our own demise?
Mirth misguided by our self - proclaimed sagacity.
The clock ticks, indifferently cynic. Tick tock. Mock tick.
Does the morning dew weep for her sister, the fog? We ask the mirror uninvited questions, don't we?