The week ended in messy tones. With pieces of past lives spread out. Like wreckage scattered across the highway. Paths were blocked. And those involved were left to stagnate. Wither off and die. Or to move on. Some are soldiering through across uneven lines. Pure pain or slow but steady drips of bliss. It's reviving. Oh how it reminds you of life. Some lost to sickness- internal or external. Collapsing or transcending. Those were shots too cold to call. As the pieces shatter into tiny little shards or fragments. Little pieces that cut your fingers as you gather them. Hardening skin barely left open. I'll call for you.
