Old Worlds Aflame

   The smoke arises to blend with the dawn light haze, as into misty morning the flames are dying embers of the drama that consumed the blackened remains; contortionist exhibitions of flames to tear into the structure that was once a portal between two realms. A protagonist flippantly tosses the singed remnants of a cigarette to match the ever more singed body of the cigarette that ignited the flames hours ago; leaning against empty fuel canisters with a face flashing anarchist flare to match the blaze of a night’s overzealous act to save all that’s reflected in the reckless depth of our protagonist’s soul.

   Two worlds stood solid; a stoic stand of faithful stone so solidly built in honest work that friendships imbued in each brick ran through the land that hard graft and painfully observed patience has made it possible to build, the other a towering rock of jagged etched foreboding threat to secure in isolation the very thing of corrupt origin the protagonist must keep in secret. The only link made of wooden pieces that with every step between worrying creaked as times own affect weakened its structure, a mirror of this process in every heavier step our man took for the weight of a mask to distract from his real state of self that made each step to cross falter and in effort appear visible weak.

   But as eyes turned inwards in that communal formation of a most supportive keep the man we see with callous smirk who coldly leans before that originally referenced deconstructed bridge, fire the agent of volatile destruction in every lustful leap of a flames lick, he sees lives of close friends tower in judgmental hate over the ramshackle shelter that for a whole life has barely seen even a most desperately begged for lick of paint.

   How fanacically did he strive in ever increasing length to match their exploits and seek to triumphantly arc in personal achievement a very public reveal of all he could accomplish, fallen fatally flat as in tortured conversations that coldly expressionless figure before the bridge burnt has felt the creeping sting of being outgrown from adolescent adventures and care free escapes.

   A line of thinking creases the brow from the eyebrow of one aggrieved eye to the other in escalating waves of doubt “Have I protected what once they thought of me in this distancing act? Have I deepened the trapping pit of what exhaustion they felt at carrying my poorly arse around with them in charitable acts?”

   Some small comforting value brings a twisted flash of pearly white teeth in the darkly reflective logic that by cutting off that rapidly rotting part of our protagonist’s life, he will be blissfully spared the knowledge of ever having to know the truth, in the slumping nature of the slanting incline of his body and descending head it would appear to give only fleeting relief.

   Alone with his ghosts he is forced to ponder “What if all I perceive in all I see of others faces and actions, the damnation and resenting looks, is just an illusion that has jaded the truth?” followed in derogatory fashion by “What if I was wrong?”

   Upon his jagged fortress of hollow rock a dejected figure turns to face the lonely unloved hovel that is loosely called a home, the taunting jabs of ghosts and shades from all of failures deepening, suffocating, grip is now a second hand fate to make mockery of the depressingly underwhelming series of acts that constitutes a dead-end life.

 Will he ever be brave/stupid enough to ever return?



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