Death at the Doorstep by OliverBPhotography, literature
Death at the Doorstep
Death has now come to your doorstep Every bomb a knock-knock-knock on your door The grim visage of the skull keeps inching ever closer; yet if feels as though he is breathing down my neck as well. Hearts beating to the rhythm of the war drums, bodies falling in line to serve their purpose; Pieces being moved on the chessboard by unseen hands with hidden motives. The wall you built for protection, a monument to silence Turns to barbed wire that cuts into your flesh As it does into mine, sweet darling; and so the two of us bleed in unison. Already I can hear the reaper: Knock. Knock. Knock. And I wonder when he will arrive at my doorstep. Run, my love. Run swift as the wind, run - run as if your live depends on it, because it does. RUN.
Forgive me, I like my quiet days, a little too much. The ones with the books, the pillows...the coffee and socks, and the odd bout of rain. I like to settle down, with an old show marathon, and let the world down the drain. When happenstance, gives you that once in a blue-moon-chance, to put your phone mostly on silent, for the better part of a week. And the chocolate you saved, for just such an occasion, is twice as sweet. I like the days of mundane tasks, without the focus, on the rings or the whistles. And the smell, of ink and parchment, the click of keys with the certainty that, they're not being pressed to chat, with anyone, it tickles. Forgive me, I like my quiet days, it's a bit of a mood. Between the new-blooming flowers, and the soft of the hours, there's nothing as good.