The air was solemn, sky cladded in dull grey. Rumbling thunder of men’s murmur echoed down the hallway, marching from one room to another as if it belongs. Never invited, death holds precedence over all things. Black, white, grey, nameless faces intruded upon her lair, whispering hopes and promises she no longer could hear. The air was solemn; it was raining. Black, white, grey…from faces to faces, from handshake to handshake, I led my dance. Courteous greeting was met on equal ground with polite inquiry, ridiculed back and forth in their soporific nature. The youngest of the Valentine was cladded in black— ivory skin passed upon from his mother, she was paler than he is now. Black, white, grey…her snow glowed among frozen lillies. The air is a sweet suffocation. It was raining. A hand was placed upon my arm. "Someone is at the door.", one of the intruders whispered. Black, white, grey… Steps too light led me past bodies of crowd. Intruders. They do not belong, but they came for her. The air was solemn. Murmuring thunder was broken by an opened door and a flash of red. Her lips was once a rose in full bloom— all pale now, as pale as her skin. My father. Deep pools of vermillion were staring back. Had I lingered, the sadness in those haunted orbs can almost be believed. I didn’t. "You are not welcome here." Intruders. They have came for her: they were there for her; he wasn’t. Sadden ruby eyes, they haven’t halted the door’s closure. Thunder roared in my ears. It was raining. But the lawn is dry.
Posted on: Sat, 06 Jul 2013 12:31:00 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015