There is a path away from the gardens and the greens.
A path shunned by the blooms and the colours of Spring.
A grey, colourless path.
A path deemed ugly by the horde, yet clear and inviting to the lonely.
Neglected, trivialised, like the wretched child who gently trudged the unwended gravel, shoulders shrugged, wrists cocked, fingers softly curled in a mix of tension and glee.
A path untamed, sinister, and rough, yet to the quiet soul, an expanse of queer beauty and unspeakable joy.
What joy beholds the stark? What sensible being embraces the grey?
Yet grey is the colour of the lonely. Like the crumbs left on the tables of a feast, like the black silence that lingered when the song had died. But no one knew the beauty of the grey, for no one stayed.
No one knows the tales of the fallen trees, no one feels the twist of dead branches, no one knows the fate of the dying leaves, no one feels the life that henceforth springs.
Walk the lonely path, and feel the life beneath. Walk the path, and listen.
The bellowing snore of the giant oak. The silent crack of a falling twig. The faint rustle of a distant nest. The whispery song of the quiet breeze.
Ahead, strange beauty flanks an endless road. Beyond, a quiet friend waits for company.
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