this head that houses the thoughts of a slain writer with nimble feelings
the commemorative house of the deaths, birth,peaces and wars of the world around her
watch her eyes shine from the light reflected off the world as it crumbles before her
stumbling promptly
she dust herself of the dried up tears of the people that find comfort in her
she wonders of to the nothingless corner of the place she once called home destroyed by the people she once loved ...
or did she ?
it could have all been a hoax like the time when they vanished before her eyes not a single spec of dust left
the abyss is a tidy being
removing every trace of the grime we call regret
she is lonely as she should
be now the thoughts starts creeping in
persuading her like car salesmen at a thrift shop
she has no income but she still gives in
she is tired from fighting them off anyway

the darkness is comforting and welcoming
she wipes her feet before she is consumed by the nothing around her
© banele