Blue

Location

07095
United States
40° 33' 16.4952" N, 74° 16' 56.9496" W

Sadness lurks on the street like an ancient greyhound—forlorn, lonely,
With a heavy satchel strapped on his back, slowly limping on the road
To nowhere. The rest of the known world has deserted him—left
Him to survive on his own, drowning in his own
Tears—dying for air, trying to escape
This cruel, cold abyss of no return.

Trying to wind his way through the melancholy maze, he is sure that his return
Back to the path of happiness is imminent. However, he is wrong—for the lonely
Trail is endless; there is no hope of escape.
Snaking its way towards the horizon, the road
Seems short. The ignorant greyhound hastens his pace, trying to find his own
Way out of this cruel, cold abyss of no return with all he has left.

He sees tattered old buildings, hunching forward to his left,
And on his right, broken streetlights return
His gaze and he glances away, thinking of his own
Life and how his dejected, lonely
Being will never again embrace love, for the road
Ahead is long, and there is no hope of escape.

It is known to him that all means of escape
Is futile—but is there really no hope? He is left
With anguish, ail, and an aching in his old heart, yet the road
Still continues to provoke him, telling him that the return
Of a life of joy and peace is impossible, dissuading his lonely
Spirit to press on, for now, he is on his own.

Overwhelmed with pain and bitterness, his own
Conscience heckles his ability to keep moving forward, and he tries to escape
It too. Reminiscing, he remembers his jovial past, how he wasn’t lonely
Or sorrowful. Now, all he has left
Is his satchel of burdens, wishing he could somehow, some way, return
Back to his old life and onto a more promising road.

Limping and whimpering, the tired greyhound sits on the side of the road
And something alluring abducts his attention. His own
Discolored eyes cannot believe such an oddity and does not return
A notion of reality nor understanding. A blue rose. It is his escape
To a world of fantasy—that anything is possible—for it is all he has left
To hope for, and it keeps him company and not so lonely.

The ancient greyhound, forlorn and lonely, continues limping down the long and winding road,
With a heavy satchel strapped on his back, left to venture out on his own
With no escape but a blue rose he hopes will carry him through this cruel, cold abyss of no return.

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