Resignation runs faster than hope

The night is dark and grey no moon, no stars clouds as shrouds. There was a fire here once spewing energy and light now it coughs ash and smoke or perhaps it just dribbles it. There's a lone figure, which i think is me or it could be all of us, everyone. Just this, nothing else around. The figure hunches over, mumbling nonsense Strikes a match, lights a firework A spray of light; of energy The rocket climbs, leaving it's orgasm in its wake A comet's tail A blazing symphony Then it's gone. No explosion No colour No big bang No life. The figure tries again. The rocket lights the way! Then disappears swallowed by the grey. And again it, or i, tries The comet's orgasm lights his face hope fills his wide eyes it fails. It dies. His wide eyes shadowed with grey. And again it, or i, tries The comet's orgasm lights his face Anger fills his eyes It dies. No more rockets left. So he tries to sleep. He'll have to work tomorrow. To buy more. Up at 6, finish at 4. Night doesn't come, it's always night when you sleep in the day. But night is here. The fire still dribbles smoke and ash he has more rockets Frustration fills his eyes. They fail. Up at 6 again, to earn cash for more. Up at 6 leave at 4. Desperation fills his eyes. They fail. He returns the next night. He's worked again. Sweat covers his uniform. He strikes a match and lights a cigarette. Tears fill his eyes. Failure. He cries. His wailing louder than the rocket. He throws himself on the old fire. There aren't flames. No merciful release. No untimely death. Just darkness. And work. And failure. He strikes a match. Lights a cigarette. He's running out. He'll have to go to work tomorrow

A little writing inspired by the art of Beksinski

There’s a world, very alike the earth which we abuse, though further evolved in their greedy, selfish values. Kings, they declared themselves to be. And in mock majesty wore for crowns the skeletons of the dead. 10, it often took, to fit the shape of their titanic head. The putrid practice was made worse by the making itself. The deceased’s families fashioned the crown of corpses. The walking corpses sawing, gnawing and sticking the still. Tearless, though tortured as they were, no liquid was left to spare. Their dusty bones long too dry to produce emotion in the eye. And what, you ask was the family’s reward? None, that with you or I would strike a chord. Only a weak and sickening pride, that one of their own lay by the king’s side. The Kings, unaware of their greed’s gastric flaw, often consumed too much; swelled, and exploded, for their constant want of more. And when a king, through unchecked greed, blew sky high and left his chair; a walking corpse may happen by, glance up and see that it was bare. The ambitious grinned, for they now thought it was their time to take the throne, and in a hectic frenzy they scrabbled and clawed but fell back down as nails broke on the stone. But one with a brain, more useful than the rest, fashioned a ladder; from the bones of those who’d tried their best. When he reached the peak he lost his mind, which convinced himself that he was king. He looked at the weak and meagre bones below and began hysterically laughing. The first laugh heard from a skeleton for a thousand years or more. But this action, in an exhausted figure, was then the final straw. His broken body, weak and frail could truly take no more. He died, still laughing, fell from the throne and broke upon the floor. The end came fast for this doomed race of folk. The kings sucked the semen from every walking corpse; the soul, the life, the yoke. Then no more was left to them, nothing devoured except their time. To waste away, the punishment for their crime. Though not all went in this same way, some more desperate grew. One tried to eat the walking bones, choked and died bright blue. Another, like the other who turned himself bright blue; grew so desperate he devoured himself, though the outcome he well knew.