The river Lethe cries, you plow your way inside, a decaying smell of gasoline, the canary died a long time ago, their family grows wealthy.
Granted, howling ghosts reappear, on the mountain top they stacked fear, privilege for the rich, a memento of tragedy, a love happened for a start.
Bone freezing cold seeps in, a wail of misery of the woods, it sounded so dear and pure, a keeper even in death, and they sleep peacefully, under small blankets and nightlamps.
A comforting sense of terror, a haughty expression of life, the heat grew louder, they speak up for the tell tale bird, under the nightsky they snore.
Despair brought in hesitation, a haste mistake of a black chaise, as it turns, engulfed in mist, the twinkling lullaby another whisper rustling the tree.
A hinder to all and none, the perplexing jolts it produces, how to keep each one of them alive, as they dip and turn in their taunting dreams?
The law of death hath spoken, a dance of sacrifice, we miss the crystal clear clarity in its voice, the sensation of sweats trickling down, they tangle inbetween sheets.
One last final flow, requires quite the victim, a galloping fantasy, blue and sunset like, the canary fled down, and the night halted.
YOU ARE READING
Blunt
Short Story"For I am a blunt edge, the dull side that is of a deadly weapon; yet still, I can cut through the waves in an odd sense." -Forgive and Take- "Like a progressive evolution of a semi-completed music score, our hands reach out of the nebula. We pictur...
