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Smell The Dying Roses
Smell the Dying Roses
Storming through the door, that rainy, dark summer night, she was screaming.
He was screaming.
Their faces were pale,
Written with pain,
Like the pages of a book,
A book being burned,
A book being torn,
The tear works its way down the page ever so slowly.
This deafening noise; amplified, pounding into their brains.
A shriek rang out; eyes wide.
The sound of breaking glass,
The glass, a flash, dim light lingers, then black.
A flash, the scene of flying pieces, a flash.
They stop, ever so close. A sigh of relief made known.
She made no movement, her breath heavy.
She blinks, and then blinks again. Blinks a third time, nothing, silent.
He stares, stares at the glass hanging in the darkness.
He blinks as a flash and scream ring out.
The scream long, then cut short.
The glass, the glass flew forward, now dripping in blood, now buried in her throat.
A tear fell, the sound morbid, as it hit the ground louder than a freight train in the vast hollow room.
He looks around, swallows, and puts his left foot forward.
A scream, not his own, a flash, smashes the glass.
Seventeen thin pieces in all cross through his skull and out the other side,
Don’t enter the green house or you will die.