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The Walker

A Poem

By W.F. RastellPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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Underneath a frail blue tent, barely illuminated by a distant light, the smell of sweat and grime permeates the space as traffic whisks by, mumbling their mufflers and risking their tired tires with every mile traveled.

A great gasp of air is inhaled as a creature emerges from the tent, wincing and wrapping its leg as it stumbles out onto the sidewalk, finally crashing its head onto the cement as its eyeballs elude and protrude out of the skull’s sockets swiftly.

The cries of help are immeasurably silent, drowned out by the boisterous sounds of drunkards laughing in a wavering ecstasy and the rapid-fire insults from aggravated cab drivers, couples, strangers, and stragglers.

Flying bullets of copper and nickel attack the creature, muting the sobs and morphing them into mumbles of gratitude like an old ill ridden mutt begging to be relieved of its misery.

But alas, the suffrage continues for this condemned creature, living in the most minimalist of conditions as it huddles its shattered eyeballs and broken brain into its arms before crawling back to its blue tent.

A crack in the sky and a light pattering crescendos into a downpour over the blue tent, ripping a gaping hole and drowning the creature in a liquid cleansing.

An arm snatches the creature and drags it across the asphalt roughly. The monster sings songs of excruciating pain, terrified at the prospect of the execution now seconds away as the rain rhythmically slaps its face in taunting fashion.

The swell of sound slowly fades into a percussive beat, then into an absolute stillness. A giant tarp encompasses the beast and violently vibrates it, vacuuming the tears and rain off its poor shell.

A powerful heat source springs closer and closer into the mouth. Injected with a poison, the creature begrudgingly swallows the concoction as the insides boil to an escalating temperature.

The beast patiently waits to keel over, slamming its eyes shut and waiting for the ultimate destiny of death.

But nothing. It slowly peers his eyes open, witnessing a spectacle of befuddled huddles all garbed in white.

“You’re safe now. You’re one of us.”

surreal poetry
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