He steps forward.
A giant with a head and a half of excess.
Behind him, light flickers and wanes.
Wax drips, candles shush in a flash of peace.
The deafening silence between heaves of storm
Made more intimidating trapped in electric blue bottles
Sharp and mirthless
Its red.
The rolling shards of glass
Crunched under my hands
Aged twenty porcelain, torn in twos and fours and tens
Priced ink shattered at the seams
Koi’s bleed, giving flowers life
Not so permanent after all
Numbness spreads, disconnecting
And all I see, all that matters is—
Its red.
Tumbling down again.
When will I be allowed rest?
I’m tired of standing.
I’m going to start doing this until further notice. 🙂 I’ve got a short story in the works right now, though I’m still debating posting it under my stories here or making it pretty and giving it away as a free mini e-book on my site. The difference? Well, not much. It’s free both ways. But its so much nicer when formatted.
Nicholas Rinth 