Twelve

The shower of gossamer wings,
Makes the blood in my eyes pulse with envy.
While my brittle bones tear my flesh,
Aching to escape and find a grave,
To settle in eternal rest.
There are memories of innocent days.
They are sparkling baubles at the bottom of a dark box.
That is all I have left to cling to.
Like a silver thread with a crimson tail.
My feet scramble to find purchase,
On the muck coated walls of the well of age.
Above me is sunshine I cannot reach.
The moon dances with the sun mocking me,
Like white lace on an Easter dress.
Strappy shoes of ivory patent leather,
Ankle high socks,
And a bundle of fake daisies,
Adorning a snow white hat.
Pure skin, untouched and clean.
Fine fur, only visible at the right angle,
Like faerie dust adorning fairest flesh.
Freckles.
But I break the toys I have been given.
I pull them into my dreary well.
They fail to brighten the darkness.
They cannot strengthen the thread.
Yet at least for a brief moment,
I am immortal.

-Nosmo