When I look, a reflection succeeds. It sees the past, present, and future in green. A bit of a common color if you ask me.

Like seaweed to water is leaves to a branch. Or like the dress to Tinkerbell, crafted hand in hand.

A childhood story that lights up like magic, but every story wishes to be seen first untold.

No more questions, nothing can be seen with a keen eye.

My green reads in stained blood drops, but my reflection reads clear—he's been here.

His existence reigns in hell with more untold stories, hah 'Oh the glory!'

My reflection writes itself, no mirror is borrowed.