Tragedy of
Wanderer:
“Moments,
when you cannot get high enough on alcohols but only blood, your own, which you
must drain off your veins and collect in goblet you kept to grow a pair of
dahlia by the window; Instead that goblet grew pair of eyeballs that hung there
as if peeking in and watched him all through dusk attempting to drag himself
out of that void. Void, which was sinking him down and deeper, there was no
ground anymore beneath but an abyss. An abyss created out of his own flesh and
bones, for his shadows were as shallow as drown dead body floating by a marsh.
It did not
happen in one night, he did not even fall singe piece, for he was too stubborn
to be dragged opposite so he insisted but hands of wall-clock pierced his ears
and sliced through his lungs in the epitome of twilight, as if it were cooking
a delicacy to serve the darkness, his royal highness, after all he was a faithful
slave. And now, abandoned, Piece by piece he fell down as those notes hit the chord;
his hands attempting to catch his leg, his leg trying to run behind his face,
his face as twisted as a crooked finger-nail and made his heart screamed
thinking of it a ghost. There was him falling down in pieces yet with a hope in
his heart, his beloved night would catch him, stitch back his pieces, caress
his scars and bring him back by the dawn before even he could himself realize
he was neither alive nor dead but a spectre at large.”
