REVENGE
28 April 2008, 02:25 AM
All The Wasted Years
The clock is ticking away; her life is empty.
The woman steps from the porch steps carefully, watching her feet and allowing strands of her gray hair to fall into her withered face. Everything is silent; the birds watch from their trees, unspeaking in the harsh certainty of this moment. Her thin dress is tattered, but she doesn’t feel the wind – instead, she feels the sting of the disease that she’s been cast away with. The disease that could’ve been cured; the one that no one cared about.
Loneliness.
Tears run down her face and they go unnoticed – her feet are bare, and as they step upon the broken pieces of a past life, they begin to bleed. Broken glass, beer cans, and long stamped out cigarettes pave her way to salvation. Will you remember her, when her soul has left the glass jar in which you keep her? Will you shed a single tear for her suffering, thinking of the misfortune you’ve caused her with your absence, or will you be glad when she’s one less thing to ponder on?
A glass bell chimes in heaven and shatters; her life is cold.
Her left hand is empty, left to grab at air that cannot save her nor give her comfort; her right hand grasps the last thing she’s had to hold onto all of those lonely years prior. A photo; her sons and daughters with their own young ones, smiling in a false moment of documented happiness. A happiness that the woman knows to be untrue yet holds to with a passion; the last thing she has left.
The rust upon the frail watch cannot stop time from ticking onward; her tears are pure.
Among the broken yard, the woman falls. Upon the ground she lay, her breathing harsh as her fingers clutch the photograph to her chest. This is where the seconds slow, waiting for the dying; the seconds slow, trying to give the frail enough time to catch up before they cannot be saved. As she takes her final breath, she clutches violently to the photo; it crumples in her grasp, the smiling faces now broken and distorted. The smiling faces now shown for what they truly are; false, uncaring, and empty. They’ll never say goodbye.
The wasted years now melt away, melding into death; she shall be forgotten.
The clock is ticking away; her life is empty.
The woman steps from the porch steps carefully, watching her feet and allowing strands of her gray hair to fall into her withered face. Everything is silent; the birds watch from their trees, unspeaking in the harsh certainty of this moment. Her thin dress is tattered, but she doesn’t feel the wind – instead, she feels the sting of the disease that she’s been cast away with. The disease that could’ve been cured; the one that no one cared about.
Loneliness.
Tears run down her face and they go unnoticed – her feet are bare, and as they step upon the broken pieces of a past life, they begin to bleed. Broken glass, beer cans, and long stamped out cigarettes pave her way to salvation. Will you remember her, when her soul has left the glass jar in which you keep her? Will you shed a single tear for her suffering, thinking of the misfortune you’ve caused her with your absence, or will you be glad when she’s one less thing to ponder on?
A glass bell chimes in heaven and shatters; her life is cold.
Her left hand is empty, left to grab at air that cannot save her nor give her comfort; her right hand grasps the last thing she’s had to hold onto all of those lonely years prior. A photo; her sons and daughters with their own young ones, smiling in a false moment of documented happiness. A happiness that the woman knows to be untrue yet holds to with a passion; the last thing she has left.
The rust upon the frail watch cannot stop time from ticking onward; her tears are pure.
Among the broken yard, the woman falls. Upon the ground she lay, her breathing harsh as her fingers clutch the photograph to her chest. This is where the seconds slow, waiting for the dying; the seconds slow, trying to give the frail enough time to catch up before they cannot be saved. As she takes her final breath, she clutches violently to the photo; it crumples in her grasp, the smiling faces now broken and distorted. The smiling faces now shown for what they truly are; false, uncaring, and empty. They’ll never say goodbye.
The wasted years now melt away, melding into death; she shall be forgotten.