A habitually melancholy writing style...

Bitter days of creeping silence and aching solitude brushes by a pair of weeping shoulders. A separation unwarranted, unwanted, transforms silence into distance, settling in the stink of a cold room. Lone occupant lying, dying upon a tattered bed sheet, crying, thrashing. The sting of bitter salt through tear stained lid. Yet outside lies the day, full of bright biting blues flecked with soft marshmallow white and upon a grassy plain convulsive sob shall be removed, the hurt transfigured into still warmth. A small white hand shields fluttering lid from Apollo’s light and a cool breeze blows against once weeping shoulders, singing sweet release.