Funeral

And when he looked to the sides, he saw the walls closing in, crushing his body.

There was nothing left but to murmur for mercy — yet no soul would ever hear his cries.

His wounded spirit drew only the storm of slaps he delivered to his own face. And the more he thought, the tighter the knots twisted around him.

For failing to do what had once been whispered into his ear, he now paid the price. No grave would ever be deep enough to bury the remains of his remorse.

Etched upon his face was the withering hand of age — the mark of a man who no longer knew where he had faltered, where he had made the fatal misstep.

And nothing would ever summon a true smile again — not the kind that once lit the fires of his passions, loves, and fleeting lovers.

The might that once was, now crumbles beneath the weight of time.

His girls had become women, and his women, mothers. Behold the end of what was never even allowed to begin. Behold the seed that feeds the vilest of human senses.

And which one is it?


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