A Whiter Shade of Pale

He lay on the roadside. Immobile. Crimson liquid seeping from the crack in his skull, his blood surrounding him like the broken wings of an eagle. He was once proud, majestic. And now, he lay motionless, tossed aside like rubbish. I stoked the hollow of his cheek with the palm of my hand, the rosiness of his face had long gone and was replaced with a sickly olive taint. His blue eyes had lost their colour. He stared back at me. His mouth hung open. He was dead. His soul had fluttered away from his wretched body to a place of wonder and allure. He must be truly happy, all because of me. This is my doing.