In the end, I ran out of metaphors;
In the end, I ran out of flowers.
I ran out of hares, I ran out of tea cups;
I ran out of roses, I ran out of sunflowers.
Because the roses dried out,
And the sunflowers turned a shade of brown.

Now,
The layer of white is happy and merry,
Yet the layer beneath, wailing.
The layer of green, long dead;
Yet it is alive, hidden under the white bed.

The observer observes
With a sense of his own,
While no one tells him; what and why.
Towards the white,
He attempts to find the green;
For his failing attempts,
His mind cries out loud.
But does he really cry,
Or he just hides his smile?

For him, will the grass come out,
Or on the sloppy snow, he may die?
For he knows: down under the white,
The green is alive.

Yet again, alas!
I used words, but metaphors.
Might I not be firm, enough
For the direct use of words?
Or so, why do I write,
Because I can't speak?
Or maybe I just wish,
To speak but see.