~observation Through False Dawn~

Candid beliefs of grief, where notion belays birth beneath serfdom. Once spread, collecting counterfeit additions, superstitions like hived honey, neatly packed to feed imature illusions; devoured now. Nothing to wear or bear, just fading echoes fighting to remain coherent, but the pain of severed ties beguilingly lies like sirens wind whisper. Does decay not dally, vaporising vitality, whittling away the concrete colours neat in their display, so only spider sucked husk plays memories against the dawn, awaiting death of a new day, and all returns labelled yesterday making way, creating spaces for promises to fill or kill.