I clutch at bluebells and fairy wings, at daydreams, at the poisoned green apple of my eye,
I'm not sure what difference they'll make any more, for there is a devil on my shoulder and he runs rotting fingers through my hair and my hopes; I must witness it all.
I hang wind chimes at twilight; the sky is stained, running ink and regret. In the morning I take them down; they sound too lost, too lonely, too familiar. I cannot bear it. They shiver under the heat of my sorrow. I suffocate them for once and for all, throw them down into the cellar; a murky tomb for the unforgiven or overwhelming parts of my life. I stand for an age and think about it all, then bitterly smash those memories into pieces, bury them bit by bit... but I know they are not gone: they will be resurrected, made whole, and come, Zombie-like, to violate me in the middle of the night, keeping me awake for hours.