The fires had laid their rages.
Each with an unbinding twist of flame, foreboding the ethereal into what should never have been, and wasn’t. Illusionary ashes rained the ruins in the minds of those contemplated by the beasts, in casuals and armored black-and-white glamour.
Their scorching gazes, the results of what we have seen in the shattered ebony eyes almost surreal in existence. Treacherous zeal flickered the dying heat, frozen, still.
The fields are strewn with the remains of withered grass and broken glass, each soul wandering, fumbling along the edges, yearning for what it felt it once had had, but the satisfaction is not material. That evades the minds every trickle of sand, fluttering away in blue skies and bare branches, the leaves long within the hearts of the green alive at the edges of the graves of those higher up along the evolutionary line.
The wooden shacks line the border in a picturesque view, the peace and loneliness too grotesque for the weak at heart to grasp. A lone gathering of trees, a shade of green at a time everything else had whitened.
Buried near the construction sheets lie metal rods. They tell of tomorrow, of a day fed and a hand grazed at the toil, for what, though - for a triumph they feel when going after a price tag everyone else with little idea had slapped onto society.
The worth lies in the essence of life of every grain of sand, of every faded blade of grass, every dancing ray of sunlight. These light up the life that binds us in a earthenly trance of tremors.
Yet few have the time to sit back, think and realize, all of us driven in haste and a pitiful greed, the golden bucket never filling, why, no one had mended, or even noticed the hole.
I can feel it trickling away, — sanity, hues of burgundy where I’d painstakingly filled with canary yellow. The dark was creeping in, my path to retardation almost taunting. Too young, we all felt.
The ink splattered walls were engulfing, almost drowning me in its suffocating embrace of seemingly warmth induced facade. Of course, in plain sight, the mind feels it slights itself, the black tears sputtering the plagued coughs, again and again. A reminder, a remembrance. And my thoughts fathom how disregard is capable, natural, even. You wonder if you’re underwater or above air, neither makes not a difference to you, you grasp for their fingers wondering whether their sanity is real. All you know is the half-insanity is blinding, disillusioning. The evolution can never be revolutionary but, it feels, your conscious can’t make out the borders. Laced, maybe, but not drawn. That much was sure.
And we all felt we needed to wake up. Or so we thought, anyway.
Maybe it’s just me swirling in this inferno, and the rest of us are ghosts of memory.
It’s a powerful thing, perception.
05.01.2020
