The sky is patchwork quilt,one painted with dabs of fluffy white in a sea of grey,ones that belong to masterpiece landscape hung in an art gallery.
The smell of rain lingers in the air,although it's not raining yet.
I can taste the moisture and dust on my chapped lips.
White roses wither and die a slow death with time,as I hug my knees to my chest.
The patch of sky and roof I can see above me,crisscrossed by electric lines,
upon which little songbirds usually perch is all the sky I need to see.
The weight of the wind is making the birds fly helter-skelter,Home,before the storm rises.
From where I sit,against the wall..the windows of my house seem high,almost unreachable.
That's the beautiful thing about being lonely,it so often leaves you with so much mind space..
Almost like a perfect alternative life.
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