Life's complexity scathed the molten rods of steel as I flew to the heavens with the wings of thought.

My eyes were stabbed by the flash of doubt; hands tied with the limit of love that I failed to trace the blurred trail of distance.

The frailty of expectation blathed the red fort of relation, when its hard tree never shook from its root. The silent drops of injury fell on its leaves, but they remained dry; as dry as the sands of indifference. It looked such to one man below, but he knew not if the leaves felt the same.

I thought that the leaves needed to be torn off, to show them the need of care. But can the gardener hurt his own plant? So do I still water the plant, caring for it; desperately trying to shift the harshness of reality to the depths of the anonymous, that even I myself fail to discern emotion.