Home sweet home

Sometimes, I think I miss my old little world.

Like The smell Of petrichor soaking into the dead leaves, or the sound of all the little fairies talking to each other in their loud, high pitched Chirps. The feeling of the wind on my face as I soared through the lush green.

Then I remember it was all just a dream, something conjured by nostalgia and childhood long lost. The sweet Aroma of rain has morphed itself into the stench of rot, The once Joyful chirping has been swapped with the buzzing of flies and infernal squawking as the carrion birds swarm overhead, it turns my brain into an incomprehensible static. The joyful feeling of the breeze rushing through my hair has been exchanged in favor of the idle, Dry air now clogging my throat, choking me.

I can only stand by, unmoving as the vines come up through the floor of this long dead wood I called home. They Prick into my skin as they wrap themselves around my lungs, Stinging my eyes with tears. The world looks different now as the roses in my eyes wilt away, and I see things for what they truly are.

This rotten place had simply lured me with the memories I used to hold dear, like a pitcher plant Tricking prey with it's pleasent scent, Trapping me into a prison of my own making while I lost myself in the wonderous dreams it had Given me. The vines squeezed harder as my vision darkened, with one last thought in my mind before I went into my last, long sleep.

I missed you, and this is what it has cost me.