Wednesday, September 19, 2007

The blood, as dark as the pavement below it, mixes with the rubber and oil left behind in a screaming hurry from ghost cars on their way to ghost towns and ghost cities, with ghost people talking in hurried, hushed voices.

And she is the only thing that's real.

Back broken, blood and mud-caked bones and torn away flesh litter the once-new asphalt that is cracking and hiding secrets. The blood pools into the gaps of the scarred road. An angry wind whips the trees and what's left of her hair. Above, the sky is darkening, as below her eyes lighten and the soft fluid solidifies to a mirrored glass, trapping what is within.

Soon the wind will hush its ceaseless rage to allow the rain to wash her body away, like all the others, mercifully.

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