The mysteries that lie on top of my ceiling
The ones of the boy that lives in 4C
Because you see, I live in 3C.
and everyday, I hear the storm.
The thunder of the fists as they hit something unknown to my eyes but very real to my ears and it transforms
Into the lighting, it strikes when the impact of the thunder blow is too hard to handle and down he crashes
To the floor, hitting everything in his path on his way down, like flames burned to ashes.
And rain. Rain are the tears, streaming from the boys eyes.
They flow like rivers down a mountainside
only to be met in a lake at the end
A lake so big that you can’t even comprehend
Then, the silence. Not complete, for the whimpers of the boy can still be heard.
Those never go away. They stay through the night because that boy is never cured
I think about the mysterious boy that lives in 4C
But I will never fully understand those mysteries, for I live in 3C.