The decoration looks like an outbreak of warts on smooth skin. Do I wish that on your magnificence? Do you really think things look good in clusters?
The music is obscenely loud. The merriment conceals the melancholy notes of my song.
Those hollow things put up there will never know the beauty or fragrance of a solitary flower. I wait for those to burst with a single prick – a call of your conscience. But you ignore it.
Nevertheless, it lives like a lone scar on my soul – threatening to spread like wildfire to consume me. No, it won’t be the ugliness of cancerous cells – just an afterglow of a spiritual transformation.