Tears fall from the sky, creating a staccato rhythm as the ground refuses its company. The one puddle formed remains isolated and unseen while a delicate glimmer pierces the surface of the loneliness. The slight wind races by, ghosts of yesterday vigilant with fatigue and saddened by the evil tranquil, icy flames of cruelty rippling the minds of the good. A melody made up of the quiet screams of the prisoners shadow their ache for freedom, their need for a salvation from the silhouette of their past.
The moon continues to glare upon the world.
A girl sits on the edge of solace, the remains of earth acting as her temporary safety, balancing her body to free her from the deafening silence that creates the soundtrack of her mind. She feels lost. A sudden twinkle of quiet pauses the fear that once sung through the air. Though, as soon as the relief is felt, the noise returns, we must all be assured. The girl's hair softens beneath the liquid moonlight as she brings a frightened creature to the warmth of her withered hands. She feels her heart beat an alone pulse. As the day retreats once and for all, and the streets remain still, the girl wonders why she is untouched by the droplets of tomorrow.
The solitary moon grimaces and sings a haunting song.
Orange, green and blue splash against the pavement now, and the grey world is stunned by the unknown concept of colour. Maroon, crimson and scarlet stain the scene. Yet, it dares not to touch the girl. Maybe she is wrong, but the girl is sure she saw pink. No, it can't have been. It isn't long before the colours fade and all is as it was before. But, before this was normal, before the only colour was grey, she couldn't help wonder what the world once was.
The moon begins to taunt and haunt and scare the dying wall that protects the world from the moon's frown.
Nature reverses and a drum in the sky warns the world of the yellow light that, sure as the sad day, would cut through the air. The rain smashes against the ground, the once alone puddle now joined by a chorus of friends- or foes; one can never tell. The moon begins to shine darker and flashes of the world's history are apparent through the aligning of the stars. The sky flashes and a drum is heard again. Something's ready to attack. Fear. Dread. Awe. It is all felt: fear for their lives; dread for the knowing; awe at the power. Would today be the day that they won? A ripple of wind is heard as hands reach towards the sky, to inform the moon that they have surrendered. Every hand but hers.
The moon lifts back its arms and easily casts a spell on the world, making sure it would continue to spin, continue to torture, continue to allow sorrow and sadness and silence to radiate from its surface.
A whistle reassures the air, as another joins, as do two or three more, creating a harmony of façade and false hope. All is quiet again. The cycle is complete. The hope of promise begins again. Hope is not enough, the moon would say, but they could not hear.
She lets out a whimper and brings her newly born hands to her face and attempts to cradle her fragile mind.
They had lost.
They always would.
They always will.
~
Oranges & Chocolate,
The Girl in the Moonlight.
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