NaPoWriMo 2017 18/30

Tonights entry is unedited free hand whilst listening to Sheng Cai play Chopin Nocturne Op.9 No.2

She drifts softly
along sweet green grass
memories of home
whispers in the trees.
The whistles of the wind,
the coos of the swans,
and the song of the breeze
fill the park.
The carousel keeps turning,
she keeps watching,
the children laugh,
their mothers gossiping.
Down by the river,
nestled in the grass
she hums pretty whispers,
enchanted by him.
He strides across the lake,
a dark figure
cutting her world,
like a blemish on a painting.
Her peacefulness is fading,
her realness is falling,
the door closes, her eyes
glisten like the ripples of the river
she takes him in her arms
as they turn about
spinning, disappearing
into a watercolour,
she whispers softly,
silently,
nothing. 

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