Dark Perspective

Parched

The Beggar's mouth dries with each inhale, from lack of nutrients to sustain saliva production, or the source being famine spread across his lips. The dust of the ground on which he rests his head, remains stuck in flaking layers to the skin of his forehead and spine. The Beggar knows morning comes soon,
singing the song of the Rich Man. Perhaps the scraps that are better fit for a mutt, in the eyes of The Rich Man, will be spared to the lesser species. The Beggar tugs at the flowing silk hem of the suit,
"I cannot harbor my pardoned sins no longer, I hold no ties to those who have burdened me. I Beg, for the remains of anything, diseased, infested."
The Rich Man eyed the soiled palms of the frail,
"I have not burdened your soul, I am not guilty of your tragedy. Starve, and reflect on the sins of your own."
The parched lips of The Beggar pursed in confirmation of his fate, the berry-tint on the Rich Man's lips deliciously smirked and the pace in his feet quickened.
But The Beggar would not wilt, or die of malnutrition.
—
The fire ravished the wood with great burn, a char developing steadily as The Beggar's lips became wet. Wet with saliva, a liquor so strong he almost choked.
The power felt from another's life being sacrificed for the cure of one'a illness: mortality.
The Rich blood flowed, from The Beggar to the humbled.
—
The Beggar dug a shallow grave for the shallow being, the bones being all that is left. Animals who once murdered by the masses for currency, now in the very dirt the bodies of their victims lay. Where is the life, the gold, The Riches ? Instead, the Royal bloodline, now inside the diseased, functioning to restore The Parched.
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