The trees are thick with tar, dripping from the smoldering breath of the crimson sun. The heat swells with moist humidity. Vapors of hot breath paste to the flesh like glue. While hands embrace feebly to tattered umbrellas to keep refuge from the goo of the lonely trees.
This ugly and forsaken place be the lands of Hollow Graves. An empty place where many lay but walk bare with nothing to say. Their lips crusted of pain, hydration is far from the soul. No rivers flow with water, only the blood of the dead.
The mountains bare no snow, only the flesh of those of womb. The sacrifices of the living, those who took what was not theirs. Snuffing the gift they were bestowed. Searching for a lasting escape from sufferings of the life. Only to find themselves torn with each repeating day.
Their flesh kissed by the mending lips of demons. Only to scream out to repent as the devils sly lips turn sharp. Lacerating the innocent skin, the newborn flesh. Howls of dying men and women shatter the skies with each passing moment.
No stars hang, no moon shines. There is no night, only day, the sleepless eyes of the sun. No rest is to be found here. No comfort for the damned, the frail hearts of those who ran. And so walks Stan, a tired and bitter man.
A soul once flourishing with life. Only to be extinguished by grip of his own hands. He drew too close the dark shades of the lame, the damned that walk the halls of our hearts. None are without them, without the shadows of misery.
And so he sat beside them. Drinking, singing, dancing, forgetting the blessed moments of night and day. The blessed moments to breathe and see. To wander with no restrictions of thought. And now he is but a pale soul, a walking prey of his own.
His eyes are far off windows of darkness. His heart is stone, beating only in the moments of a devils kiss. A twisted tease of pleasure, keeping mind the memories of life. And now wretched be his posture, a crooked creature.
Mangled teeth, no tongue, for none are allowed to speak. Only the shrieks of bitter pain they may reap. Cutting crops of breath like locus to farms. The blades of hell now lacerate the body of Stan. A constant loss of grip.
A forever trip of too much death. Never to rest, to see past the memories of yester scripts. Denying why, he walks this ugly place that exists.
I fear we have embraced suicide like we embrace the simple act of kissing. I fear we have embrace the slaughter of youth for flesh in exchange the obsession for “eternal” youth. I fear we have exchange life to me only ourselves over the existence of others and there of, the expected.
Heavy be a heart alone, but deadly be heart alone that never speaks. A Man’s Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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