She swirls around the same old swing, Like leaves that float and fly for a new breeze, The same park where benches lay adorned, The same garden of memories, of love and lovelorn... A gentle drizzle that comes every eve, Does make her not smile nor blink. She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.
Welcome to Paraferno - this is the story of a lackadaisically frantic and whimsical dame on an oneiric infernal paradise ;-)