Me too

The velvet waves of a spicy wind were floating a procession of stem-less roses in the copper sky leaving the lazy trees unmoved.
The sun was lying on the crystal horizon careful enough not to melt it, and the crescent moon was unveiling her face to the twinkling stars.
Strands of grass rose into arks of emerald upon lost lands while the arsenic river was rocking to sleep the rainbow trouts.
Lightly and tremulously they were singing wiping their feathers with green leaves. Who sang first? It remains unknown.
It wasn’t flesh nor blood: It was the embracing freedom of nature.

The broken angel was sewing back her wings shattered by her addiction to his lies, the useless furbelows of his words, and the shimmers of his eyes.
The fallen fairy was trying to reach back her flower by braiding her hair out of the dungeon where she was imprisoned.
Tinkerbell was striving to find her way back to Neverland, land of eternal youth, singing her soul and swallowing her tears.
It wasn’t flesh nor blood: It was the reality behind the stories we tell our children.

Glancing through my window, I saw it all.
I saw the freedom of nature, and the reality behind the stories I was told.
I saw a blooming nature, and the death of fiction.
I saw what wasn’t flesh nor blood and looked back to what was: The cage. A cage made of ribs, flesh and blood vessels through which my electrical maze of ideas was wired. An empty cage.
I looked back again at what wasn’t flesh nor blood: The bird. My bird, dressed in its emerald coat with a raging soul and rusty nails. This time, it stood still and motionless, watching me.
Watching my light footfall, whispering to me: The earth loves you tonight.

SN