Sprinting down the dark, dirty corridor. No windows. No light. Hate yourself for hoping when nothing encourages you. Desperate agony in your mind carves away the golden glow of your dreams. The soul cracks, the heart breaks. Rough fingers plunge into your chest, break your body, dig out the despicable organ that beats for life. Cackling, die upon the splendor of madness.
A raven flies beyond the hopeless wreck, aiming for the rays of sun which shine from the distant end of the corridor. Why should it show concern? Foul self-hatred caused your downfall, the crow caws on its joyful journey. Death deafens you.
The Twa Corbies
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry dear, this isn't a short story. A short story has a plot and usually dialogue and certainly characters. This is called FREE-FORM POETRY.
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