Above, the birds fall in a fantastic myriad of color.
They fall in sheets, tumbling through the vast expanse of a twilight blue sky. They tangle, they writhe through the air, they flap their wings, and the deafening rustle draws the attention of people below. The birds are no bigger than the children's chubby fists clenched tight with wonder. The birds fall, fall, fall, and turn to ash a half-second before they hit the ground.
The ground soon becomes dusted with ash. Black snow.
Between, her mind is naked, skinned, raw.
She watches on a cold-blue terrace of a tower, watching the birds crash. To her, it's a fantasia created from the dark recesses of her mind. She grips an onyx railing curving around the ledge of the terrace so hard her knuckles go from brown to pale. Angry breaths boil between her lips.
They're gone.
The world has taken over their hearts in such a way that she can no longer see straight, and she's dying in a way that will leave her body perfect but her soul in poisoned ruins.
This is what life was; there was the forever, the dreams smeared thick as oil paint across the world. Then what life became; there was the society, rivaling with the forever and focusing hard on silicone skin and shattered dreams masked by dusty makeup brushes and weighing scales. This kills her spirit, because this isn't how the world was supposed to be.
The world was supposed to be fair.
The world was not fair, and now the ones with the shattered dreams masked by dusty makeup brushes and weighing scales are killing her soul.
So she's dying.
Below, the roses weep.
They burst through the ground in scarlet blooms and ring the edges of houses and cities and countries, and if you listen ever-so closely, you can hear them weeping. Their petals are ringed with black ash, and they're sweet, sweet fragrance becomes clogged by the burning scent of drug addicts and bullies' words. The roses sob for the people that submit themselves to chemicals, for they're like children that have held their pain inside for far too long, and now they let loose.
Watch the birds fall from the sky. Listen to the roses weep.
At first, the people say she's a crazy little thing, nothing but a dreamer, that she can't make bushels of birds fall from the sky, or even get roses to weep. She's fifteen. She's small in size.
But they're wrong.
She's covered with the lies and the darkness that the world layered on like thick lamenting melodies of songs. She's the sweet fragrance of the roses that died...and she's the happy melodic tune heard in the world. She created the birds and now watches them fall.
Too many worldly things that choke real beauty, like the ash of the once-magical splendor of birds.