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Contributed by Note on Monday, 24th October 2011 @ 03:03:35 AM in AEST
Topic: EmotionalPoetry

Sitting in a cold chair in a cold and windowless steel room, a frail old man counts each of his last breathes fade in a puff of smoke.

A flickering candle sits on his desk – its heat, he can feel against his skin, and yet it is just not enough to warm him.

He clenches a pistol in his right hand and a pen in his left, trying to force a poem about the beauty of a world he cannot see.

The pistol always whispering reason and verse into his ear why he should no longer choose to live.

He tries to drop the pistol, but whenever he looks down, it is there in his hand again.

Dying for sweet release, but not wanting to die.

Frustration boils, and a tear slides down his cheek. His trembling hand pulls the pistol up towards his head, the pistol screaming to give him the kiss of death. But the old man cannot control himself anymore, and fires an inch before his head.

A stream of golden light floods in through the bullet hole in the wall, reflecting off each surface, and filling the air.

The man’s veins surge with youthful excitement. He leaps out of the chair, no longer feeling young, and watches the room glisten with golden sunlight. The pistol vanished from his hand, and so he used his now strong arms to push down the wall, revealing the heaven he had hoped for – beautiful green woods, with refreshing blue streams, and warm golden air.

Strolling through the warm woods in a new open world, a happy young man enjoys each and every breath.

Copyright Â© Note ... [ 2011-10-24 03:03:35]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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