Strawberries that tumble off grocery stands of dusty wood-colored plastic wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water and a hint of bleach to **** germs. Covered in dripping red gooey sweet syrup that resembles sour sauce of lo mein Chinese restaurants, but encapsulates all feelings to nerve tinglings and lick chops to swallow drowned. Atop a table tuckered in the corner next to borrowed chairs that mismatch from three to one and darkened grain and pale wheat with a broken leg that will one day topple to the floor. Retching from inhalation as breath stops short lungs rejecting air from the path of recycle-ment like tossing used paper bowls into foundations for isla de debris. Enlightenment of the general mood from stumbled laughter into an inception loop of spinning tops and trading card games into a never ending bubble stream like a train braking and go to rest. Dead like a corpse as in sleep like the departed where nothing can be bothered except the alarm for tomorrow.
Because I am scared, for the shadow of despair, that will rise as a lion's roar, to claim the title "king," and rain down sorrow, before the lamed warrior can raise a piece, or a scholar a pipe, to ward away evil, and purify with ceremonious smoke.