Subsurface

by on July 7, 2018 :: 0 comments

In an instant, he dragged Linda to the basement with high hopes to find himself. The camera on the floor surrounded by inscrutable instruments covered in blood. A slow clock sat ticking as she clutched her locket to her chest. The score settled on small tragedies of sisterhood and the lost trance of what could but wouldn’t happen. There is no liberty for us in the implemented order of you. A threat manifest on the toppled staircase of regret. Enshrined far from comfort scratching at her bleeding wound. The warning bell rings in the sky-lit green. She sighs resigning as he tightens the chains unleashing all of his pitiful exhibitionist tendencies.

He said, “Wait. Don’t move, you’re mine” and took another drink around the corner where the particles of dust kicked up from the floorboards. With control, the warning bell tolls on the hour, expressing faith in a promise land where no one has been before. The sound chases after wishful thinking and moments of imagined freedom. This began with a narrative and devolved into disorder. She exhaled lament in pacified agreement while her healthy disguise crawled out of harmony into the belly of the old frontier. There was always subtle wonder within the destruction of mysterious darkness. Action poised with friction, a calm manipulation of everything. Time rolled out flat and the more she moved, the more it pulled her down. Her quiet cry to go home muffled like music in a padded room.

editors note: Faith in a land of promise brings more hope than faith in someone else's promised land. Cry out! - mh clay

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