Abandoned Dreams, Hovered About Her

Conscious production of natural elements, is countered by the wastage; deterioration of our casual desires we grasp at a reality burdened with this erroneous perception... a perception deceived by the thrill of materialistic embrace, indeed such casual talk, a glance into the netherworld of fancy.

Light diminishing in intensity, there is no trace of bitterness in her motions. Her work, unnoticed by the sprawling profanity of this city, in slow steady gestures, the heavy shrug of shoulders while those hands clenching the thick stick. Then pausing briefly, she breathes, adding the stench of foul air into her tired lungs.

She goes about, as always, seeking to clear the misery of our discarded, old dreams.


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