Sunday, 5 October 2014

Room of stones

Awkward silence, mortuary smell, of death and sorrow. Someone’s self torn into million bleeding shreds. A soul trampled down on the hard, cold, concrete floor. The sky melting. Walls turning into ashes. Dripping bones, handcuffed ribs, intoxicated lungs. A vortex of remains, wreckage and dirt. Thoughts hanged from the stones of our wrists. A dark shade of purple, a pale shade of blue. Branches covered in mud, boiling suns, wind scattering flesh.

Carnage not of humans but of humanity in its most singular sense. 

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