Whispers From The Dark

Chaos-you, blue sphere.

I smell them even now. The cold, damp dirt from the graveyard. The wind had been harsh, the rain wilder. Trickles of transparent spheres run down across my cheek and down my jawbone—not the 10th time... and I can tell with a clear fierceness that I would still miss the underlying person beneath six feet of dirt.

You grew thorns on me I could never untangle. Your love had brought me chaos—a beautiful kind of chaos; so that I felt disaster in all the strangest ways, in streaks of grey, lavender and the color blue. And when it finally approached sanguine, your love had left me shredded, extraneously coated but fervently scenting like the now silly hues of roses that make up the flowers on your grave.

We had shared the apocalypse way ahead of the rest mankind, a kind of catastrophe only you would understand. And from them, wounds of honor—Wounds that you had infected, that eats away at my soul, at my torn flesh, at my beaten-up and battered body that would still if ever given another opportunity not hesitate in winning another medal with you.

But it's a muddy day, is it not? One, dear Marjorie, we could be charging at with indefinite zest...But all you ever do now is lie there beneath all that dirt, rotting away like the now becoming blue sphere.

You're dead my dear; But so is the world.