A prism of grievous peace. Picturesque ladder squares and the green triangles beguile my footsteps of correction. Nobody affines to hold my hand, but my mother, who's not here. My tears welcome my knees in 90 degrees to celebrate my 50th lap around the mirrors, reflecting my last 40 cursive letters. I close my eyes and pray. The world stops like the dances of dimensions, unity of 180s, the ghushing winds fortight my future in turquoise. 84 years of conversation mark me back to the reflections of your impeccable smile and white flowers around your neck. Bouquet of skies and your glowing strands of blonde hair compliment your color of perfection. Our foreheads meet, the sixth sense you're counting on. You cover my eyes as it starts pouring. You are part of my community. You don't need to worry about isolation. You will hold my hand to the cathedrals. You won't ever leave me under the sunshines and the mallets. You were part of me from the start. You prayed for us before...