Whispers from the past still fill my eyes with the mists of pain and love.
I do not walk a day without the knowledge.
Waking days and mornings, everything is fine. I am fine.
There is none so beautiful as one in love and loved in turn. The loss of such is much like the look of a deflated balloon. It no longer looks new and ready to hold the breath of life, but rather has been filled to an overflowing, that cannot be matched. And now a wrinkled empty shell of orange, blue or yellow is left, lifeless on the sidewalk.
Then there is the mountain chickadee flitting through the bare branches of your winter evergreen. He sings his heart to the heavens, and the sun beams. Through the clouds that moment is drenched in sunlight, its ruthless beams cause brilliant sparks of pain on the crystaline snow. The mountain chickadee will not weep should that beautiful white turn red.
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