The gauntlet of pain overflows. The pain drips slowly, honey-like, draining into the shimmering desert of isolation. Fighting its way through this desert is my shouting, screaming, crowded self. So much commotion.
A red dustbin of thoughts floats near the horizon. A ball of dreams rises and slam-dunks into it. The lid falls shut with a metallic clatter that echoes through the curtains of twilight that hang listlessly over the walls. Stifled air builds walls of steel. Steel that is cold. Cold perfection set in the molds of eternity.
The symmetry of misery beckons. So subtle, so sublime the call that the very threads of sanity reverberate with it's touch. History stands witness as the spirit is executed. The executioner smiles with glee as time mangles herself in the claws of destiny. The guillotine drops. The steel blade glints with the malice of love.
Love born out of solitary confinement. The confinement of freedom running wild. Running far. The farther he runs, the closer is the oozing numbness of distance. Distance bridged by crooked, awry, helpless words. Imperfect words. Crafted in haste, the bridges creak under the weight of aging trust.
Water-tight bonds are drenched in the cold sweat of reason. The silence leaks drop by drop. Into the gauntlet of pain.
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