In the Cold.

Pupils set ablaze by bleached sunbursts, the snow. A violent puff of white escapes the mouth and wilts away, before a collective plea fulfills the echo. Silver rattles upon the ground, a minuscule voice of pleasurable foreboding. Sat in silence, they gaze to the right, submissively chained from neck to skeletal bone. For a moment, the bourbon color dismisses the cold, and runs its warm fingers through featureless hair.

They sigh in unison, then pray in silence.

A violent hurl and heave leave the body scars to summon, souvenirs from a memorable outing. Tightly intertwined and laced in a ribbon bow, the huddled children hear the footsteps drawing close. The slashing of scars adjures tranquil yelps from the cheeks of the little ones. No longer hushed or fearful of the silence, a discrete sliver of painless warmth throws the souls into mediated worship.

A millennium of time, yet so many remain. The hands of those deceased serve as pocketable treasures for the remaining dwellers of frostbite, a tasty midnight snack. Miniscule delights are seldom given, never taken for granted by the lean children. A pendulum sways across the heavens, inhospitable at midnight yet welcome at the break of dawn. The bourbon pours syrupy honey over the dreadful chains and smoothly cracks the iron cast.

Fingers fold to the rhythm of tweet-to-do-loos as the children open their exasperated eyes. Pupils arch to the luminance of the magma as they tenderly grieve in unison, failing to recall their diabolical state of mind. With no time to spare, they run to an objectifying sanctuary. The clock tickles each blemished spine and coerces their bodies to refuge as they gallop under limitless strain. Pseudo-chained and blindfolded by will, the fiends exploit the silent culprit and begin to bend the extensive monopoly of time.

They wait for the hushed footsteps.

Before tomorrow, a blessed comrade shall be plucked from the masses. One begins to tap a finger, counting slowly, quantifying unquantifiable time. The children dare not whisper, in fear of the echo and the painful slashes over the chest. The hour stays sedated. Shallow breaths are heard in the midst of anxious ease. Breaking dawn pulls the lever of the skies; deep seclusion falls near. The footsteps tread by the deaf, blind, mute worshippers. A lonesome prayer is mumbled from the mouth. Though written in fluid tongue, the refined chanting runs oddly faint.

A war cry reflects upon the platinum moonshine. A deadly weapon of sorrow and a lovely synonym for lust is hurled through the chest. Pinnacle silence follows the inflamed howls of distaste. A remorseful sigh is heard. The arteries continue to bleed and fight for guidance in the light, yet all the delicious pain is sheltered by adrenaline. The cold generates a violent shiver in the gut. Intestine twirls into Olympic hoops as the aggressor sinks claws into the gaping sack of meat. Heart beats in hand, as morning breaks into bourbon sugar. Tastefully seasoned and drizzled in goo,

breakfast is served.


5/11/23

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