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“…and my memory weaves
a golden mist,
undimmed dewdrops
drenched by purple twilight.
The radiant glow of brief years,
wisps of remembrance,
once Clear notes plucked on Muted strings.
O, time,
dispel the clouds gathering and tugging
at the threads…”

And on, the girl in my shoes walks,
singing glittering nonsense,
leaving evenly distributed footprints
soon to be covered by dirt or snow or time…
While others sink below or rise above,
she is content to float in their currents,
to be pulled along
without fighting for her own Foothold.

A living, breathing cliché.

Quick! Take a picture of her!
Watch as she tries to stand out,
All the while cloaked in the camouflage
Of normality!

I feel we should applaud her for her forged effort,
But she cannot see us…

Her eyes are closed.