“There was something about that house..” She said,
drifting into moments non-existent.
“That old house, with low, low ceilings.
..The german furniture..”
In the realm of this woman’s memories,
the sky was tinted crimson for the first time.
Rings of smoke embodied the souls of evil men.
Men who knew nothing of death, of the intricate concept of being.
The light engorging in his pupils,
an old man thinks:
“This year will be carved into the marble walls of history.”
The man’s statement echoed in the trees, in the strings of existence.
The woman, now part of the crimson sky that adorned her skin,
remembers the suffering in the way a man remembers a deceased lover’s smile.
Children, creatures and materials burned without color in her eyes.
Their voices muted, the crackling sounds replaced by Mozart,
“The Day of Madness”.
It was the least she could do to be safe in a shattering world;
to dream without the dangerous colors,
to fill a sudden void with familiar sounds,
with fragments of anything she considered to be home.
“I never went back.”
She returns from the pool of memories, dripping in truth and lies.
Her frown decorating her mouth.
“But I know
after the chaos,
the house was just a pile of ash.
A pile of ash and misery.”