Past Of Completion
Each had reasons. Solid reasons. Genetics. Fate. Age.
His was more complicated. Or compromised. Or whatever he chose to tell himself in early morning dark.
Awake the voices clashed. An awful din. Asleep the vistas burst aflame, crashing like cheap props.
Asleep he embraced all scenarios. These were limited tales, bent into fractured shapes.
He couldn't fly. Couldn't float. Possessed no special powers. Death was constant, laughing.
Nothing cruel. Simply fact. How every story ends.
Deserted buildings. Broken glass. Soiled fabric. Torn scattered limbs. Dust of neglect clouding dying suns.
Run along beaches of blood. Rock towers rise, block escape. Music falls, fades.
It's familiar. Warm. Loved ones smile in the distance. The closest furthest away.
He knows better than to run beyond his reach. At times he'll make a break. Climb the rocks. Drag the sand. Create false openings.
Slammed against rubble. Breath sucked from lungs. Clothes stripped and burned.
Faceless women appear. Offer wet promises. Part of his punishment. Ignore them, the ache is profound. Devour them, his regret is complete.
Four AM sirens under his window. Guzzle what's left of the wine. Light up, inhale, cough out blue smoke.
The day is over before dawn. The rest is just killing time. Murder by the hour.