Dancing With Apocalypse

The blade, a gun, some length of rope? He sat there mesmerized, sorting through every sordid detail until his brain hurt. He would rub his eyes long and hard; darkness disturbed with red and blue polka dots laced with tears. A contact lens fluttered off of the iris and down his rough, unshaven face. Left there as a memoir, all is still and quiet.

The tick of his blood was the only afterthought to a thousand blood-red suicides of lonely silence. He remembers the pain of a broken reply. Memories etched with razors…

These weapons of turmoil were cold. They gave off a sickly aura only hateful syndicates of mass delusion got off on.

And when broken-hearted simpletons inflicted healing on themselves with these inane jigsaw puzzle pieces, the selfish curtain call was forgotten the second the steel stopped running, the black dust settled, and the noisy threads creaked.



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