Buttercup Colored Gown

Crack.
And there it goes.
These tired eyes can't even focus on the issue at hand.
Pop.
Squish.
Splash.
Crash.
These sounds are all too farmilliar.
Synaesthesia doesn't exist.
This is all real.
The buttercup colored gown goes up in flames.
And turns into bitter, grey ashes.
Rejuvination is vanquished.
But only for a little while.
For the ashes still exist.
And regardless of where they may go.
It happened.
Mistakes?
Maybe.
Patience?
Maybe.
Insanity?
Indefinitely.
What am I doing?
What are you doing?
Your actions to set me free do nothing but cripple.
Cripple.
Until movement is a privilege.
And leave me at the bottom.
Under the bottom arguably.
So what's left?
Ashes.
Damn ashes.
So I pick them up.
And wonder where I'm supposed to go.
If one doesn't see amidst many.
Almost unanimous.
The one is wrong, isn't it?
Ask the ashes.
Where do we go from here?
On this dark September night.
Caught in these yellow threads.

Ashes to ashes.
Ashes to ashes.