Die a little when pressing the remote. Flip the channels pretending it matters till wrapped in the final frame, when sleeping beneath the grassy squares. It burns unappreciated till a pair of condemning hands extinguish the light with a thick rule book. After the light is gone the hands clap for their victory over rebellious wicks. Flames lay in its pages a fire burning the kindling from mind's twigs and thistles.
Nothing threatens the journey in the maze, but a whispering rose spitting the scent of fear.
Pearls of boasting adorn the entrance, melting like ice cubes when collected. Its jagged top like a torn piece of paper. A silver fog creeps over the grass accompanied by a child's sobbing. Future tense felt in aging tones. The color of groans reminding how quickly the heart's chalice drains in seconds.