Time Gone by

Spring is coming to an end. The smell of fresh lives that it brought from the dreamy mountains is turning to be the blues that I have dreaded.
Ballads of blues were playing in my ears and Gary Moore was pouring out his heart into those slick, sweet bass notes. The table lamp had acquired the wheatish golden complexion of my scotch and the day old iceberg was waiting to sink any upcoming ship of thoughts.
One year before, I was burly with a shabby outlook. My hair was the only free and wandering part of me, growing out wildly, trying to live and let live.
And the year prior to that she had dropped the bomb. Little did she know that I had been building a crystal palace for her. It was quick and painless. And as the mushroom cloud settled, I was left robbed, naked, powerless, a human.

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