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,
Overpowers,
No movement.
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.