Tuesday, 5 February 2008


Angry arm rises skyward. It slams down with perfect intention. Wood and metal are no match for a fist; clenched and venting. The materials, foundations and structure of what once was, lay splintered and twisted - forever transformed.

The heart has been ripped from this house; the soul having already escaped, bares witness to the destruction, like a dark bat peering out from a neighbouring belltower.

What remains, now lays strewn across a leveled field and out onto the grotty sidewalk running parallel beyond a chain-linked perimetre. A rusty letterbox stands erect like a tombstone out front - a somber guard inscribed with the number 9.

Its innards, spilled, are spread for all to see; a white lavatory exposed to the daylight, lies unnaturally with a lifeless oven, baking in the sun. A timber wardrobe stares blankly up at a perfect sky; its doors unhinged, hang open - spent and heaving. No contents remain inside, it has merely been discarded; while a buckled skeleton is uncerimoniously heaped into a mountain of past memories, sprouting distant echoes of laughter and joy amongst the rubble, along with a lifetime of tears, broken hearts and smashed windows.

The Brave
3rd February 2008

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