Fri jul. 31, 2020.
06:21 P.M.
Pigment Everywhere
Fresh orangish color, the yellowed October leaves,
they covered the path like sparkles at the top of a blank canvas.
Bluish color, coming from the cloudless sky that contemplated
the human being born from a chemical warehouse.
The sun and its glow that contrasted the cold autumn current.
His walk was hasty. However, he managed to create a balance
to appreciate the roads, the buildings, sculptures, and details
and details from the citizens of Gotham.
He had arrived at his best-worked hideout, far from his beloved Asylum,
filled with debris back in the day as a prestigious engineer.
He immediately peeked into his collection of the same Champagne model,
which reminded him of the joy he cherished when he sat in the modest dining
room of the Wayne Manor, toasting his adored Dark Knight on an afternoon
tragedy. By nothing in this world, he was going to be able to replace his taste
for the mentioned sparkling wine that warmly satiated his throat: 'Remembering is Living,' he thought. He walked infinitely through the own
mahogany brown shelf, trying to cure his eternal feeling of abandonment
caused and forgiven by the one who carried his other half.
Reach.
Drink after Drink just like water.
Collapsing at not seeing his soulmate close to his lap.
A joke without a punchline.
A loved melody by the young Wayne began to play.
The man who was a fanatic of purple jackets dragging the floor
rushed to pour himself a glass of Whiskey. The time when the
inevitable happened. The seconds ticked by, his vision blocked by
countless white flashes similar to a photographic camera. It made
It made him dizzy until he grabbed the torn skin from his face to wrap himself.
His sight that at a slow pace no longer allowed him to inspect the furniture that
surrounded him. The whole place, like his soul, had been splashed with a gray
color, giving off an atmosphere with a faded panorama.
His hands hidden in the leather gloves trembled.
His orbs filled with tears, but he held them captive by laughing
hysterically, closing his eyes tightly. The Valeska warned himself
that if he let his bitter regrets fall, there was no going back.
Weeks passed by.
Again, the Prince of Crime enjoyed his freedom.
Consequently, there was the dread of the city roads.
Attempting to continue with the next step of his brilliant plan.
His phone boomed, alerting to an incoming call.
It was a miracle that immersed in the fog provided by the alcohol
he was able to respond.
"Sorry, Jeremiah."
The voice of a forgotten accomplice came through the earpiece.
It was just when the understanding felt like a cold water
bucket over his head and slipping down his shoulders.
The said deluge that carried his most abysmal fear,
made reality crash what was left of his doomed heart,
and the lack of colors on his stage only confirmed
what that helpless criminal had just told him.
Bruce was dead.
His other half no longer existed in this world.
— Fabiana
YOU ARE READING
Colours
Poetry"It was just when the understanding felt like a cold water bucket over his head and slipping down his shoulders. The said deluge that carried his most abysmal fear, made reality crash what was left of his doomed heart, and the lack of colors on...
