Posted byA Humble Shadow
Posted onMarch 25, 2018
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A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss brings a deathly air to tediously dragging ceremonial events
A solitary figure casts a creeping shadow over the grave as the days light is corrupted by nights threatening presence slinking across the grey skies above, bleak words spoken in monochrome tones blandly tell the span of a life lived in best intentions, unintended sins heavily evident in the lacking numbers present to send off the mortally expired person; six foot deep with no tears shed and not even the falsely redeeming whisper of a mournful cry
Grave diggers idle wait in slumped pose as leaning on muddied shovels they take long drags on cigarettes, their grunting conversation and blank faces as much emotion as the grimly played out celebration of a life will know
Rain falling with shattering force upon the lone soul there to take note of another merc fatally felled in battle upon distance shores, having fought for empirical reasons viewed scornfully by the mass public such wars are meant to serve, a mass public protected from horrors and nightmarish mental scars such faceless soldiers are sent to far places to endure
The following wake somehow an even more condemning show of depressions worth as that lone soul hunches over a bar, a bottle of vodka tightly gripped as its poison is splashed messily into a shot glass, the fifth refill in as many minutes of a shameful display that draws indignant sneers from passing observers and merry revellers who know not of/care not for the reason or the cause
Every happy laugh, sincere demonstration of abundant love and smiling verbal exchange a stinging reminder of all life’s bounty the hunched figure desperately wishes they could feel again, no more even a faded ghost of hope that they will find such things as horrors and nightmares jaggedly cut through the illusion this world is so kind
A lonely tombstone on the edge of the abyss
An empty coffin rests six feet under
Its supposed occupant mercifully granted freedom from irredeemable acts with the illusion of death, now without name or history in the endlessly crushing tide of life
A bottle of vodka and a shot glass the only way peace will ever again be found
To whom does the keeper of secrets and sins confide his own
When only God’s and demons rival what he knows
And the broken fissures of the world he calls home
Is the only fractured and tainted image of others he has known
A shadow of a figure lingers on the edge of everyone’s vision, fated death in his coldly blank eyes
Honest person’s subtlety shuffle to the farthest corner away as less positive hauntingly linger with glasses in hands, each with a suggestive nod of respect to the shadows where our figure occupies
Lacking in intelligence or self survival the most stupid turn without an air of caution to offer joyously toned platitudes of hope and happiness imbued
The figure casts stony glares with ill warnings carried with the deadest of tones, a warning carried with hellion implying words and tone
The fool turns to anger and threatens, insults and accuses the figure with ill advised energy in each dangerous term of insulting blindness to the flames in each of the figures ominously darkening eyes
A final warning thrown as daggers from an assassin’s hand, each a miss but each warning tone close enough to let even the most lacking intelligence know to safely retreat in apologetic step and begging form
Stupidity fuelled platitudes hath turned a shade of foolish insult, to anger carried so insultingly superior sounding that even angels of strong will have conspicuously stepped a thousand yards in opposite direction
Casually rising, eerily calm delivery for the hatred wielding flurry of poisonously flared verbal assaults and with a burning pitch of resentment in every razor sharp word blazingly thrown, the sinisterly escalating figure becomes as overshadowing as an evilly possessed god
The quiet of the room reflects the stunned silence in each fear afflicted eye in that pale frozen face plastered on the fool, retreating so quick as to neglect even the most basic concept of stability demonstrated in the frequent and amusing stumbling run our fool adopts to escape the room
From godly rage in every creeping tendril reaching from the largely scaled form the figure previously grew to, now slinking coolly back into the huddled mass of blackness that clings menacingly to the deep shadows
The room settles easy with the ghosts gripping glasses hunching back into broken images of former humans, complete souls pushing the edges of where light allows with weary movements, so to let the shadows bleak presence remain alone in their crippling hell
The figure’s demons satisfied and now lying low in the more warmly appearing face and features of that previously ungodly mad postured thing he had become, illusions of calm shimmering in perfections reflection of every wretched detail the dark figure has grown to detest but must project
An old comrade in arms, now resting in the great garage in the sky
Thankyou for your service old buddy, and if I see the ghost of a dark blue fiesta gunning it along the back roads to Ware…
Well; give me a beep and I’ll offer you a well deserved salute!
Little Beauty, War Hound; Rest In Peace
To run a thousand miles a wild pace of unabated pace is as pointless as the knowledge of death a mere second before the fated event, equal if not cruelly on that same torturous level as when every fibre of hope leaves with not so much as a coldly scribbled note.
From which do we run?
Even if we know the futility of trying to escape in desperate fashion the most unavoidable damning fate, so should the questioning logic not insidiously twist into the question of; why do we bother to run?
See all happiness flaunted brazen and boldly large in everyday places we are forcible dragged into on a daily basis of painful survival, every happiness festering person unknowing in the war that life wages on the condemned, as with grossly spewed platitudes the acidic burn of well intentioned words erode further to the fatalistic core of broken forms.
“I am not of the living, nor the resting dead but in that place where all a demons cries will not bring pain as it would to my betters, to me and the broken legions such demonic choirs inspire quieting storms of world ending fury”
To stare deeply dark faces down which go by the taunting names which are the same as our names, till it reveals the darker still truths all who see those faces grudgingly know; it is the mirrors jagged edge into which we look.
“An open wound bleeds all of my soul’s most positive self to the ending flames of everything I hate of my nature, now the gravely clung to warmth that keeps the razor from my wrist as fresh promises of hope now lure me to the edge of the cliff”
So run we will and make speed on bleeding feet, make worthless haste in haze ridden dens of poisonous fields of depressions fruits and turn coldly from formerly warm places where old friends hath turned to symbols of all the painfully lacking pits branded with hollow happiness’s promises lost, those pits we hazardously step around for survivals fated sources of a declining will to live.