A Thousand Sculptures
The pain and harm was critical.
Through the pale leaves and walls the howls embraced, digging deep to ears that
still could hear silent promises. Those who brought to life by fear and
deranged, insane hope. Promises, enveloping like a blanket, defeating. They
breathed, breathed deep.
In a land of neverending winter,
those kinds of promises could be heard everywhere and everytime. Or found. Abandoned
on white, frozen ground, no longer breathing. Dead. Like most of those who made
them born and alive even for a short period of time, on the same land. Breathing
only to learn that they would be killed soon enough.
Now, that sounds so much like them.
Red lips bitten until they bruised.
Until the redness gone in the mind, all faded to the heavy air around them,
while they lied flat on their fabric-covered back, shivering. Unbearable cold
immersed to their stiff bones, to their sense, to the almost hollow space where
they whispered each other’s name, and the voice echoed even louder, because the
space went even hollower by the time they erased and threw away what was filling
it before.
They needed to forget everything and
remember only one thing. Each other. Each other’s hands, each other’s smile,
each other’s warmth, and what tied them together until today, where everything
started and everything ended. A soon to die promise escaped her bleeding lips.
She was too careless and too afraid to take it back, letting silence took over it
and tied the end for her and the whole universe that swirled her insides.
Without a doubt and without a trace, her promise fell to a comma.
