[Rip it apart. Be as harsh as you like)
Limp, lifeless, lonely, the muddy green material specked with dirt, debris and crimson. A mystery, lying in the dark, damp dirt; shouting guns explode. The stench of sweat, blood; remembering death as it clings for dear life onto its doomed owner, it’s too late. A stained red rip at the back where the bullet had hit; ripping through the tough thick fibres, thoughtless murder. The buttons still in place. Perfect, not even a crack. As if unaffected by events. Small, shiny, sickening. Placed in their perfect positions.
Nothing could have prepared a coat for its owner’s demise, left; abandoned to rot. Its arms outstretched. Awaiting a new friend to take it away; live, life, laugh, to forget its past, its horrors. Dark, deep pockets. Something in there? Piece of paper. White, wrinkled paper, screwed into a ball; like you would snow; the light casting shadows in the dents and gaps, the others looking illuminated. If it is opened, the cold, creased paper. Small slanted scribbles scattered across straight, simple silver lines. The words are ones of love short-lived love but beautiful silk in your ears. Love. Endless love? That lasts moments:
Like a crimson red rose on valentines,
The dark and deep colour full of feeling,
The insides unending like a deep mine,
As it grows the petals start peeling,
Sleek as fingers might brush it, the mine collapsed,
The dents are craters on the moon up high,
The rest smooth, wishing the cracks would just go,
It sounds like birdsong, a note, a love, a sigh,
The high notes make you feel like nothing’s wrong,
It might smell like the most sweetest flowers,
Taste like chocolate melting on your tongue,
Not hate, or lust, or the need for power,
It might wish to live forever, always,
But mostly, sometimes, it only lasts days.
Everlasting emptiness eating away at the miserable chamber of no life. The room dominated by one thing, not much else. Small, shivering, silent, just tiny. Devoid of a wondering warm welcome, only cheap, white heat at one corner, a rank looking square in the other. Do they sleep? The home owner? Or lay awake? Wishing for an escape into warm waves. Waves of a soft silk instead of a cheap dirty cotton. Alone, abandoned, no world around. A clock, a mirror. Reflecting back the utter urgent solitude. Everlasting emptiness. Loveless.
He saunters in. Tall and skinny, red curls, the colour of the leaves in the autumn, frames a drawn out, devoid of emotion face. Captivating emerald eyes likes fresh, green, growing grass. Heart shaped lips the colour of perfect plump tomatoes. In one hand, a green coat. And the other, fingers curling around a piece of paper. The poem.
The coat was just there. Lying limply in the dark, desolate alley way. He thought maybe something sorely needed in those deep dark pockets. But only the paper, not the satisfactory tinkle of coins. He’d felt a strange silly urge to take them home; the little, lonely room, maybe to read whenever he felt the agonizing aloneness always. And so he sits on the sad excuse for a bed. Drowning in a pool of positively pessimistic pity, made by his own foolish hand.
Gender:
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Reviews: 20