Young Writers Society

I sat in my massive parlor swathed in the glare of my burning hearth.
I sat there freezing; I sat there dying. The flame burned upwards denying me its warmth.

My eyes hung empty; staring at an indifferent being.
This flame so bright, yet so cold is an empyreal mirror that dons my face.

I fall to the floor, crawling forwards with hands stretched forward, begging for heat.

This very circumstance re-enacts a memory; recalling an unaddressed remorse.

My shrinking shadow symbolizes a dying child stumbling forward into my presence entreating benevolence only to receive indifference.

My own heartlessness had turned on me.
It had thrown me into reality’s spiritual annihilation as I had dropped that poor child into my emotional abyss.

That child had been turned hideous by that exact same indifference wielded by other people on countless occasions.
She plunged into the ice and the river Seine seeking sanctuary from the living and their cruelty.
She had been granted that freedom, her soul rising as a snowflake returning to heaven.

I had grown powerful and fat in my avarice; decadent in my privilege.
I plunged into the fire and flames preferring purgatory over these dark recognitions.
Being denied even that, my black innards spill away to nothing.

The greatest of rivers would never be able to wash away my fowl stain on the world.

only those in touch with the lord feel the loss of that child and weep for her bitterly.

(I'm sorry if you don't like this )