The days of black sunlight, candy flavored concrete, and grass that sticks to the ends of your fingers like hot bubblegum on your shoe are long gone.
The days where pictures, held by magnets, on the fridges inside bright homes showing parents and children holding hands under a smiling sun, that were drawn by technicolor crayons in the hands of children that slid like butter across the paper of this juveniles masterpiece have all been destroyed by the sun showers that use to come ever so often. These were a sign of the change, but no one not even I saw it coming. This change would bring us down from this blissful heaven and throw us to the gritty road that is, as we all call it; Earth.
This is where we all live at this particular moment in time, but it is only temporary. a tragic irony it is. I see this now.
Earth is where people are controlled buy their unforgiving wallets and the things they buy. Earth is where you care of things that would never matter to the deer of the evergreen forests, where they run because they can. There are no black sunlit rainstorms on Earth, only violent hurricanes where the drops look like faces of corpses; grey, only mimicking the sky above it. The thunder never allows sleep. These storms that flood the streets are the sign of change, that the worst is yet to come.
Hell will be so very bright, even the winters will be lit by a bright yellow sun that illuminates the scalding streets below, where people are desperately hiding from the sun and running from their unforgiving pocket books that will inevitably swallow them whole. This bright yellow sun will burn to your bones and make you wonder why your heart is is still beating. Why does it do that? People will beg and weep for a taste of heavens cool soft streets, as they wipe the snot on their crusty sleeves. They will miss the feeling of no feeling, when your body was hollow and there was only flesh encasing the weightless cotton balls inside. They will bleed for death, but it will never come. In hell the dying never die no matter how much blood they spill. In Hell I will miss the days i laid in the sticky grass and was smothered by the black sunlight that never singed.
Sleep never comes to the sleepless.
Oh, I will miss the black sunlight.