Bye, Bunny.

Numb with cold, she followed the tracks into the woods.
Draped in pristine white, she sat on rock and stared blankly overhead.

The forest ground, gleamed with green.
Everything is full of gist.

If she was her, her heart would had throb with anticipation.
But as her mind whirred, she had to shut her eyes.
All these things were too much to proccess all at once.

There's a mistaken caterpillar curling on her painted green nail.
She brought her hand to her chest and felt a constant rhythm under her skin.
A smile then stretched across her lips.

Her mind had told her it was the right thing to do at the moment.
She hadn't felt anything.
For her heart is no longer where she had placed her hand.

It had been stolen by a phantom, whom she used to peer into the shadows to spy on.
She had crafted a mask and slid it on his face.
So in her eyes, he always smiling.
So it seemed that he always looked at her with amorous eyes.

But that was in the past.
And what beat in place of the heart of flesh, was a heart made of crystals of solidified tears.

It doesn't generate hopes.
And neither can it feel strongly.
A seeping sense of loneliness is easily banished by her mind.

Now, she only does what her mind deemed right.
Which was why she dropped her bunny rag doll amongst some weeds.
Even if it was the only thing she had that defines who she is.
It was her weakness, said her mind.
The doll would hinder her with the past.

She walked briskly from the abandoned cloth bunny towards a flock of birds.
Of course, she can't fly.
When they soar, she will sit here, under the tree, and close her eyes.
And dream of a flower that she will never come by.

Her bunny doll would make her search for the flower.
But, No, says her mind.
Dreaming about it would be enough.
It's like, there's no need for the phantom and his cloak to keep her warm when there's sunlight.

Now, it is just the break of dawn.
A long winding journey forebodes ahead.
But she is already exhausted.

The Filler

The last few days before school starts.

Standing on the platform waiting for the oncoming train,
my memories are folded and tucked at the back of my mind like packed luggage.
Feeling the bliss that caress me like gentle breeze blowing through my hair.

Subtly, the train will reach this stop.
But there's still time to reminisce.

Imperata cylindrica is tall and thin, but it can't fly with the wind.
A mistake or a lie, it doesn't matter.
Now its overlooked.
There's much more of its kind.

But here's a salute to it.
Veined with iron it is, it's an attribute of the commander it self-proclaimed to be.
It was, afterall, a more favoured weed.

It's time for me to slip this piece of memory back into my bag.
Instead, I look forward to where the train will head.
Over the hills, through the meadows.
Passing the weeds.

But at least,
there will be flowers too.

At this very instance, another train sped onto the track that I just came from.
But there's no going back for me now.
For I only hold onto an one way ticket.

That's life.