Hopeless

Her eyes gazed through the iced windows in dire need of insulation’s caress.

Those eyes, oh gleaming with hue of the Caribbean waters, rested on the pane and in awe gazed at the full moon postured in the ink-drenched sky speckled with nocturnal stars.

Sick it was. It needed the holy water of its father to cleanse the toxic fumes polluting its once contagious glow. Those toxic fumes—the byproduct of beheaded sheep frolicking in the mansion of a capitalist Mongol—broke the strings of the girl’s once melodious heart too.

For what did she do to deserve such thing? She was not vainly draped in the fine silks imported from an Eastern hailing ship anchored in foreign fog. Nor she dined in gluttony on the burnt thyme seasoned on the rim of a Lenox plate. Nor she overdosed on the lies of tinting her god-given flesh with the manmade chemicals concocted with the generosity of tongs and test tubes. Nor she faked her charisma to win the smiles of other phony indents on the face.

But she just existed—existed within a mere existence—floating in a never ending limbo that after every attempt to jump out of the window and resurrect the moon with the dew of her honey coated lips, she was struck down by the lightening bolt thrusted by an angry mob all dressed in fine linens and suits—reformed in face yet departed from doctrine—glued to the screens whose artificial rays were the only illuminating source to their vacant eyes.

She was the product of other worldly sorcery the mob said—formulated by a drunk chemist they said.

Lost she was.

She stirred her own stew as they writhed and screeched at her sight.

For it was sad that a girl and a moon faced persecution—survival of the fittest they said, as they—cannibals—devoured her now charcoaled heart.