It was a time when everything mattered for none.
I held in my hand the solitude of new beginning.
And as creation spoke in different tones, we sat deafened.
Casual.
Aptitude of disorder, I am no longer of heart.
No longer of great.
No longer of love.
The legs stand haltered.
The moon grasps.
It was a time when everything mattered for none.
The cartoon hands of generals, wave.
Sheep scatter.
Chaos smiles.
I was wearing the color of arson.
Created of that which art could not remake.
I stood, grounded.
It was a time when everything mattered for none.
The imagery is almost there, but it reads as pretentious.
Pretentious, how so?