Flashback

 the tenderness of her world, of a loose interpretation of a past that serves no purpose. the limitations she set upon her mind, upon a ground of reality not firmly held, tossed into an imagination stretched so wide. she carries paint alongside, colors on top of colors to hide behind. it takes a lifetime for a heart's healing. she's waiting with a brush, to touch boundaries yet with another stroke. death is slick with blows after blows. death is the hardness broken into pieces, scattering everywhere, crushed with an awful cruelty. death waits for no one, lurking in a darkness, ready steady to snatch an oblivious life. rampant states of hysteria, in the blackness of nights. the morning hours breathes the wind of peace so softly, before misery hung up the tired backs. death is all around. I hate that it knows I'm afraid of it coming back.