0-Toah-0

Think about it. The deep lines on his face, the grime that collects on his unshaven skin, the unpleasant odour that hangs around him like a mist... it is the map of his life, with the roads he has travelled etched into his skin.  He raises his startlingly clear blue-green eyes to the grey, his cracked lips stretching in a slight smile at the sensation of another drop of water, and another, that drips lightly upon his skin.  He lowers his head to his old acoustic guitar, which he cradles almost lovingly in his arms.  His blackened stumps of fingers pluck, the dirty guitar strings fighting to resonate cleanly with the layer of grime that cover

Orange cream clouds on inky blue sky, The stars are flecks of glitter between. The biting wind a frost-rimed banshee's cry, The snow reflects light cold and clean. Days of faded white-clad amber sun, Glaring ivory against pearlescent skies, Nights of hawkswept fields and frozen runs, Pinpoint silver pixies in my eyes. Lampposts weep icicles, mourning the trees. Streets become crusted with tearstains of salt. Thornbushes silvergilt, mudpuddles freeze. They say it's Persephone's fault. Sugar-coated rooftops, Gingerbread walls, Sparkling gumdrops, Plenty for all. Perfume reigns majestic on the wind. Petals fall away like days up