Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?
A brittle, dessicated kind of life
That has been weakened outdoors in the sun
Near deafened by the cannon, drum, and fife;
A throat that’s silent, now the screaming’s done.
This is my life, my body, after you.
You pushed me to exceed my own ability.
My brain’s burnt out; my limbs burned black and blue
You broke my pride, changed outrage to humility.
What did you gain from this? I’m useless now,
Disdained, discarded, like some splintered toy;
You won’t confirm, deny, much less allow
My question: Did you ever love your boy?
Alas! It matters not. I shan’t recover,
And you’re already tormenting another.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (0 so far!)
- Published 4 years ago.
- Story viewed 1 times and rated 0 times.
All stories on Ficlatté are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 License. What does this mean?