White knuckles, grinding teeth, convulsive shaking, grimacing face...
He steps, looks down and stares absently at a crack in the sidewalk. His mind is filled with ten lifetimes of the gray skies that is his existence in this relative wasteland of reality. A thousand nights of thunder comes cashing down transcending him beyond a mundane thought process. The sun is setting.
A marriage to a faithful companion...solitude. She is loyal, truthful, patient. In the night, an outline of his figure bleeds into the darkness of the background. The cherry of a man's cigarette in the distance, moves systematically and with rhythm. This night is calm and quiet for most, but for this soldier, bombs are flying, the mortars are tearing up the streets. Chaos. He carries his battle scars like purple hearts under his coat, like bruises beneath the sleeves. He knows truths like; art is war and pain is love. Mountains of beautiful tragedy and decadence are chained to him. He knows he must destroy the correlation of love and his selfishness. On this night he hides below the multitudes of the stars in the dark sky.He looks up at the sky, the sky which he so loves because of the resemblance of a hope maybe he's lost. He's a pile of blood and bones; the only sign of life is his beating heart and the water falling from his eyes. Today beauty got away. His lungs still fill and expel air, blood still rushes through his veins, but a part of him is dead. No heart attack, but a piece of this vital, life giving blessing...has died.
White knuckles, grinding teeth, convulsive shaking, grimacing face...broken heart.
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