Winged Blue Shadows I
Uncrowned king of seedy rooms in this city, I am not interested in your wretched lives.
We are trained for it – for this – for the end of the line. My methods no longer trouble me; I can just recall when my thoughts were interrupted by eruptions of conscience. But no more. It does not matter – not any more.
Quit this dying forest of pylons. Escape? Impossible.
Life is what you make it. Or what others make of it for you…
Call the service.
Get it together.
We are all lying through our teeth most of the time.
It does not matter.
The future glows along the darkened horizon – so many incendiary flares rendering the landscape stark with shadows that haunt the waking hours.
They come from above. They come.
On the surface the wind blows warm with unnamed diseases.
Inside we cower, writing messages of hope in the blood of our offspring born shrivelled onto the cracked and shattered flagstones. The river flows deep, encrusted with all the detritus we can find to tip into its insatiable maw.
But on the other side They wait. Waiting forever. Rusting monoliths of treason.
Anger used to be my most favoured weapon. Outrage. Denial.
But now the bitterness eats at the very core of it all, encroaching on our forgotten dwellings where, sometimes, blood still courses, red and inviting.
Sustenance for leeches.
© A C Evans