• Autumn: Captivity

    A dismal image looms about the country air, giving a stimulated hope to the ones that take breath. Skies as though pure imagery blossom with irrelevance, the sun burning plants anew. Songbirds cackle a beauteous song, their voice filled with a irritate nagging, and smells of meals so grandeur that even the noblest of creatures slay for it, gnaw at the pit of the stomachs of the starving whom reach out in pity. The voices of flies buzz in the distance, laughing in merriment -- laughing in misery. The headache of such imagery drives thee unto insanity. Nevertheless, is there indeed such relevance to say sanity is apparent? That, there is not. The abyss of lies they have created will soon engulf the light of the sun, and then thee who is truly insane will be marked for judgment . . .

    Imagery stimulates the mind with feelings of emotion, yet, it is a mocking concept with bars of steel grinding your vision into a mere box, giving you images that you cannot reach out or paint with a brush. Paint you can, however, if thee wishes for an image secluded or an image of irrelevance. The cruelty seems unbearable to consume, leaving a taste of bitterness upon the tongue.

    A man lays pettily upon a cold, stone floor, staring into the blackness of night, a stench resting about the air of ancient corpses of those before him. A drop of water falls with increasing velocity as it finds its place among others within a cup of gold, a king’s realm indeed. Rays of light pool dismally from a tightened window, absorbing into the cracks that line the floor. The man appears as death, a burden he wishes to be rid of as he drifts into a disturbing slumber.

    Is it indeed I in which I chose to describe in such a surmise? Yes, I recall now the insanity unto which I am claimed. I lay day in, day out, in hopes that the tyrants in which captured me, questioning my sanity, meet a fate more sufferable than my own.

    As I sleep, I often dream of Hell and all of its riches and Heaven and all of its deceit. Once, a cup of gold was held before my eyes filled to the brim with a delicate glaze of red wine, and yet, as I grasped the cup and held it to my lips whereas I could feel the iciness of the precious metal stimulate my senses, the image dissipated into a blank canvas, my eyes peering upon the blackness of the ceiling above me.

    I lie, the blackness of nightfall before my sight, the stench of my own being seems the most intolerable. Sitting, I look to the door, a heavy grate slides open with screech of pain as it opens in protest. Thrown through the slot, an almost unidentifiable substance landed before my gaze, and I scamper as though mad to tear cannibalistically at it to calm the gnawing hunger within my stomach. This substance, called “food” by the suppressing guard, has became most welcoming, though, the smells of feasts waft upon the air mocking my existence, saliva forming as I try to estimate each smell in which tortures me.

    The excitement of my situation seems to plague the mind of my existence. Am I yet human in this place of seclusion? I watch as my cup is filled, the drips of water echoing within my mind. I sit, yes, and the blood that pumps through my veins is as the water that drips beneath my stare -- the stoppage of the flow was the end of my life. Where it came from, I do not know . . . I only know the future of its fall.