Your white top starts to be stained with the muddy remnants of grass as you lay down in an abandoned field of Asters.
You stare soulessly at the sky,the weight of your body sinking down into the damp ground,wishing that your pain would go down with it.
You tried every form of escape,seeking temporary entertainment or joy to find pleasure in drowning out the sorrow.
But the pain won't go,the renowned artist has lost its muse
A dancer's first death is the most painful.
The feet could no longer resonate to the tune,you lost a part of your muse,seeking for a way to resume that footwork
Your eyes soon grow heavy as you find yourself falling asleep to the quiet patter of light rain