Categories > Original > Drama

Merry go-round *for AdnarimSmada's poetry to words*

by OutForTheCount 0 reviews

My take on CozmicZombie's piece, "Dress of bones"

Category: Drama - Rating: PG - Genres: Angst,Drama,Horror - Published: 2012-11-06 - Updated: 2012-11-06 - 473 words - Complete

We have created paradise, therefore, there is no such thing as God, no such thing as Hell, no such thing as suffering or un-health. All is well.

There’s a mirror in front of her, but all she sees when she stares ahead is the waverings of atmospherical disturbance, or maybe it’s just liquid flooding her eyes. She’s just another corpse fed on withering lies, born and raised on words that were recorded decades ago. The codex off happiness that no one dares as much as question.

There is no such thing as war.

But there used to be, and there is. If there never was, then the word “war” would hold no relevance, would be just a blob of letters that sound like they might make sense, but don’t. But there is, and she knows the meaning of the term W-A-R, all too well. She has a liquid soul, disturbed by the slightest lilt of a voice, seeping out through her eye sockets in the most disturbing way. She fights it with teeth and claws everyday, and if that is not war, then may she be at peace.

There is no such thing as loneliness.

No, because the fallout shelters crawl with people who all look the same, deranged and malnourished, ignoring hunger and suppressing compassion to make way for a starched smile. People who all think of one thing, and one thing over everything else. Themselves.

There is no such thing as ugliness.

And still she bathes in it everyday, because what was once considered sick is now á la mode, what was once beauty is simply passé nowadays. A society that used to be going the wrong way is now flipped up-side down, spinning around it’s own axis in a nauseating spiral toward total self destruction.

There is no such thing as failure.

Yet, she’s living, breathing, dying lies and pollution, seeing people on the streets lapping at their infected consciences to get rid of the pus, only to stuff the abscess that remains with whatever junk they can find. Until it’s all trash and their tongues have grown hairy from the germs. Then they stop eating, because all they find delicious now is their own obsessive vices and bad habits, they’re just skin and bones, and they cough until their ribs crack from the strain. Choke on the mucus that collect in their sore throats.

There is no such thing as death.

And that’s the thing, she thinks as she stitches on her face. According to them, I don’t exist. According to them, no one does, because we are all those things. Funny how we all just pretend we're not, she ponders while she cracks her ribcage open to reveal but worms. Look what it did to me.

All is well.
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