Through the abandoned dreams and overgrown thickets, only a child can foresee the world. Eyes that are blinded with painful white cannot see the vivid colours of nightmares. The childish heart unlocks pure imagination and understanding of the wheels and clogs of time. The sheets of deception are sprawled on the marble floor, as the pillows of slumber are left to soften the fall of the feathered truth.

Night prepares the doorway to unspoken words, meanings and numbers disappearing. Pictures and feelings replaced the logic, the window through a portal cracking, ripping open. The veil flutters on intention. Smile, for there are memories crying. The memories, which flitted like butterflies, are tainted with the flesh of forgotten pictures. The past dies over and over again from the Present’s harmful hands, intent on forever hurting the past. It would make the past bleed, the blood flowing like a river from the sky while the future stand and watch. Laughing, giggling, content at its own distance. It dances while the past screams in pain, thick needles embedded in it while the present buries its own hands on the past’s body, the skin stretching, breaking, burning. Taunts and leers fills the past’s ears as the present continues an eternity of torment, narrowed emotions that frightened the dancing future. Oh, the future ever ignorant, dancing and skipping while the past steadily bled, the present taking no heed.

As the world crumbled into ashes, thin grey, black sand that swirled and spun, a single flower blooms in sight. The single flower changes its appearance for every step that neared its stem. The flower vainly sits alone in the middle of the fog, shadows of humans passing and going, passing and going. Like a forsaken child, the flower attempts for those who walks past it to notice it. It sheds and flutters its petals, leaves changing hues at the shadowed light. The translucent ghosts drift from place to place, time to time. They take no heed to the lonely flower who sits there, crying, silent, petals clinging delicately off the stem, leaves quivering with sorrow. The flower sighs and sighs, its natural beauty ever changing like the frozen seasons, to be pitied and sympathized. There is lays with footsteps fading, echoing in the hushed background as they pass through the flower’s path like spectral. The flower’s head droops in hope and withers in the fading world, flickering in and out of existence, the ground it use to sit on fast forwards through a faster pace, steps hardly heard on the invisible floor.

The road with no end led straight into a meadow with two sisters maliciously playing with dolls. Their fingers control each tattered doll with ease, paying no heed to the dolls’ stitched mouths on which tried to argue because of the strings that are tugged and pulled. The dolls didn’t approve of the sisters’ way of play, only to be silenced as their delicate fingers pushed them back to their spinning tea cups. Toys surrounded the sisters, a pile of toys, and their walls to barricade unwanted guests. They resided in the heart of the meadow. Yet Ivory and Ebony persists the other to give the remaining toys for their own selfish reasons. Ebony flips her long black tangled hair as Ivory combs her straight golden locks, each with a teapot in hand, fixing their toy wall, putting back stuffed bears and animals in their places if they fell. Ebony’s black painted nails traced a small line on her dress, gazing with jealousy in her abyss eyes at Ivory’s dress. Cerulean-jeweled eyes were watching Ebony’s dress; Ivory’s clears fingernails buried in the soft earth. Both wore clothed in the lightest silk, their ribbons made of pure clouds of gold and silver with Rubies on Ebony’s throat and diamonds on Ivory’s fingers. They bicker and squabble over amusing toys, each desiring the other’s items as they fight continuously, never ceasing as their voices slip away.

A voice with an alluring song cajoles the ears to come and listen, the sounds of icicles not to far off. It beckoned hypnotically, filling the deafened ears with lyrical praise, a humble intention curling at its feet. There on the simple throne of corral and anemone sat a mermaid, her scales glimmering and shining, caught by the sun’s rays. A harp made of gold resounded sweet tunes, the melody swaying the weak. The mermaid sings with gentle lighting in her luminescent emerald eyes as she strummed the strings made of silver, her fingers barely touching the chords and her voice dripped with clear melody, unfaltering as the waters rush under her fin, sitting there like a queen, singing in the middle of the forest with the crystal blue waters slapping against the throne of simplicity. The mermaid giggled and fluttered her eyelashes seductively, pink lips smiling, wavy aqua coloured hair touching the waves on the forest floor, the sky clear and radiant sunlight filtering through the thick trees. The lyrics lured sleep to come and sing with her, sin glaring with disgust in his crimson coloured eyes as he eyed the mermaid with contempt. The sound of waves lightly over lapping the mermaid rained with crystal ice, skin as pale as ice as the warmth of the sun urged her to keep singing attractively, the waters licking her youthful body. She flipped her tailfins eagerly, scales last seen glistening under the sun.

The floating remnants of wake were at hand, the slow tendril grip of sanity was returning with a muffled vengeance. Rather precise and vulnerable, although the touch was faint, the chime of logic was softly awakening in the distant, towards the eclipse moon, the crimson hue reminding an oblivious fate to befall the wicked, guided by unlighted candles and an evil following behind.

Mirrors replicate the shattered images of collages; pieces fitting like a puzzle and shapes unable to be placed properly. The smell of copper lingered in the air, tinged with erased metaphors. Similes drifted between the labyrinth of mirrors, confusing and reflecting hidden desires meant to be cryptic and ethereal. Each glass reflected the past as memories hovered like a thin veil of silence. Disturbing images of death and anguish engulfed the darkened mirrors, conflict and passion over lapping dark thoughts that murmured themselves in the mirrors’ stillness. Decipher the invisible message of the mirror reflective surface, the air chilly and blue, the glass glinting coldly, imitating the still souls of the damned and released. Cruel whispers and ghostly fanthoms are chained within those mirrors, the true eyes images of fading faces and desires flickering unsteadily, an eternity of wandering placed its seal upon the lips of the relenting musing. The glass, which shatters from the weight of lies and denial, cracks, a single line that splits. Overflowing with empty affections, it mirrors every image shown, blessed and cursed with every speech reflecting the essence within the locked heart.

Saviours, those winglings.

Able to fly with wings that cradled their reflections.

Beings entombed by human laces and velvet cloth.

Pity, they drown in the thoughts of the living.

Children the last of pure innocence.

Corrupted even by winged mortals.

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Wrote this story out of inspiration "From The Darkest Depths of the Unconscious" by Jonathan Garret. There's a message in here, or somewhat metaphors. I'll congratulate you if you could figure it out