She appeared in the music shop window. An enigmatic child before Christmas breathing slow circles of lust across the glass. Day after day she faded in and out, inching closer to the gold plated door handles. Her rats nest hair, highlighted by shimmering grey, and clanging camping pots scared patrons away.
The day she finally slid her dirty fingers across the grand piano keys we knew. Whatever she unleashed, it was beauty the world wouldn’t be ready for.
People looked on. Phones took video. It wasn’t long before every mind became captivated.
There’s a certain beauty to life alone. A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own. I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days. Those things were never ours anyway. It’s funny … The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt. At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing. Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out. Humans can die from any number of ailments … A common cold to a lightening strike, Historic rejection or morbid curiosity, It’s what makes us the same. At least that’s what they say. Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.
My shadows frolic through the roaring break. They toss their hands to the wind And dance the steps to heaven. I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.
Word Count: 147
A write for What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.
Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.
I love the moment of evening
When the day clings with increasing desperation
Painting the sky in smoky pinks and hazy grays
With a bleary brush of dying days.
Perhaps it says much about me
That I would prefer to watch
The slow extinguish of the day’s flame
Than the brilliant lighting
After the darkest hours.
How can it be
That someone comes to love
The descent into night,
So much more than the rescue
From seemingly endless blight?
Maybe there’s no fear of the dark
When the stars are so clear
And a million galaxies streak across the sky
In all brilliant colors only visible in those moments
After the day has died.