He is cool, suave, and collected.
A million bucks. Dressed to kill. He’s admired on the sidewalk. “Confident!” “Charming man!” He smells of things that sparkle Lavish things, valuables. His skin is bronze and glowing. Fog machine, looking glass He laughs so debonairly. Warning sign, “Don’t come near” He is good, and they all know it. White-washed, sepulcher He shines in his arena. It’s not true; lost control His home is so inviting. Titanic chairs, cotton sweets He surely has all the answers. Anchor gone, puff of smoke He flinches for a moment Could it be? Heavy heart. He ponders and he paces Palpitate. Beading brow. His nostrils flare, intaking Putrid smells, bile fumes He hears, but black engulfs him. Stifling breath, hot and dense His senses dead and thriving. Burning throat, taste of ash He chokes inwardly in torment. Wretched man. Farewell to hope. His chains are self-inflicted. Rotting flesh. Oozing sores. His fetters locked securely This is it, nothing more. His bloodied slave block claims him. Worthless man, fit to die. His tears stream bitterly from him. “I am lost! No hope is found!” He hangs his head, defeated. His bed is made. The die is cast. “Oh, God!” he cries out madly. “Rescue me! The end I’ve found!”
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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