|
By Lovecraft Date: 2008 Nov 03 Comment on this Work [[2008.11.03.23.18.29603]] |
|
A stone approaches its own reflection. The gray water shimmers and quakes- Kerplosh! The stone’s mirror image breaks. Bright lights attacks the eyes, of a aged writer no longer wise. He stops walking before he tires. Gin in his veins. While in a public space, he’d lost his way in the crowd’s faces. The vast park blurs and distorts. Green grass beneath bare feet, The writer falls and contorts. He calls out, tries to speak. Out comes the sound- marvelous gibberish that is followed by spit. A drunken effort to stand and a drunken effort to take hold of a fist, a drunken effort leads him tumbling down a slope. The trees recede from view, as the lake waits to swallow him up. He collides into the water below. Down now, will he begin a fast descent? He sinks like a stone, his stone, and tries to forget his pain and sorrow. A wife and kid lost in a wreck, he’d reached his bloody hands out to them, sobbing and in pain, but already their flesh was cold. Just as the water tickling his flesh at this moment is cold and distant, As he tries to empty his mind and think of a million ways to say goodbye. But a crowd of people gather ‘round, looking upon his body as it sinks down. They begin to swim in after him. Still sinking, the writer opens his eyes and sees so many warm and lively hands, reaching through murky water to claim him. Sinking downward into the depths. “No exit here” they say. |