Decrepit roots still cling

The palace of love we built ~ when our blood still flowed very warm in our veins, is now a crumbled castle — its walls with peeled paints and decayed wood; a jaded clock and faded photographs hung with wry, decrepit smiles. Now we both live as weary souls ~ on a ship abandoned on a dry dock. Many layers of darkness and shadows have blackened our joy, since the flickering light from our unquenched fire was blown out by the wind. And so, we are made to swim in an ocean without fishes or turtles. Our gardens are littered with leaves and petals, blown aimlessly about by southern winds. The love in our hearts is unthawed ~ stony, hard, and sturdy. Yet, decrepit is a weight our life has to carry — the burden dragging back our feet. It comes whispering out of a roaring crowd and makes our cries like a raindrop in a storm. That, despite being aged and frail, we are also broken and battered by time ~ more or less, we are trees whose roots have died, merely hanging on to life with a long-stretched thread about to snap.