Status: Completeness.
Thirty Shots of Morphine.
Comfortably Numb.
As the sun breaks beyond the endless dunes, bleeding out in scarlet strips of liquid ruby, the man is watching, and the man is waiting, staring motionless into the distance.
She has not come. Promises he had made, could they have been sworn in vain?
Evident.
His mind tussles with the thought, switching from hand to hand with the rhythm of the ticking of the grandfather clock. It irks him with its mocking voice upon the wall, and as the Darkness falls heavily forward, he gives up on his blind faith, ready to fulfill a dreadful promise of his own. Still ticking, still ticking are his burden of worries, and so the syringe lays to rest, trapped between the clenched grasp of a rough pair of palms...
Is there remorse? Could it be worse?
Benevolent.
Tap, tap, tap. Tick, tick, tick. Everything is running loose in his nervous left sole, and he stops, stops it all before the noises drive him up the four-cornered walls...One vial, one container is all he needs for denial, and so he kills the need, thirty lethal milliliters dripping straight down a tunnel of tasteless dreams. No knock is wrought upon the door, which gives the man the notion to bring his fist demandingly to the chair while the torniquet chokes his veinous, bare arm like a cottonmouth snake....
Could he hear her from afar? Are those her whispers?
Irrelevant.
He ceases his rational gaze, forcing full concentration into the angle of the metal needle. His sweating head pivots around to the grandfather clock, which is a pure, white, colour....
Right on time.
One second to the half mark, he drives in...
"The hell with it."
One, two, three, four...
Still the blood is coarsing warm, but something cold rushes to the incision in his torn vessel. A breaking, shaking, an aching numbness is slowly spreading...
Cap pushes down further, protruding just a little more.
Five, six, seven, eight...
There is no pain that he recedes now. Like an overwhelming shadow, a wave of unbearable euphoria covers his pulsing limb, and the man is unaware of the pain, disguised as a never ending orgasm.
Cap gives way to another inch, involuntary in wait.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve...
Pleasure, vast measures of pleasure throw down temptation, altering into a relentless disease, turning his trembling blood cold. Room is as boundless as the desert now, and golden mounds begin to emerge from copper shelves.
Thirteen, to fourteen, and down deep to twenty...
Pulling away the cool sands, are the man's corrosive hands, and everything he reaches out to touch, fazes brighter, resembling solid gold. There is one thing he looks for, getting closer, while his eyes glaze over with the bitterest of honey...
Twenty to two-five, and on to thirty...
She approaches in the haze, waiting like the night awaits the day. One more eager touch that he somehow manages, but she collapses in his sunburnt hands, drowning down deep in the still-blown sands. A gong sounds off somewhere below, and it freezes him to place, rendering unable to pursue his love...
Utterly comfortable, but numb.
She has not come. Promises he had made, could they have been sworn in vain?
Evident.
His mind tussles with the thought, switching from hand to hand with the rhythm of the ticking of the grandfather clock. It irks him with its mocking voice upon the wall, and as the Darkness falls heavily forward, he gives up on his blind faith, ready to fulfill a dreadful promise of his own. Still ticking, still ticking are his burden of worries, and so the syringe lays to rest, trapped between the clenched grasp of a rough pair of palms...
Is there remorse? Could it be worse?
Benevolent.
Tap, tap, tap. Tick, tick, tick. Everything is running loose in his nervous left sole, and he stops, stops it all before the noises drive him up the four-cornered walls...One vial, one container is all he needs for denial, and so he kills the need, thirty lethal milliliters dripping straight down a tunnel of tasteless dreams. No knock is wrought upon the door, which gives the man the notion to bring his fist demandingly to the chair while the torniquet chokes his veinous, bare arm like a cottonmouth snake....
Could he hear her from afar? Are those her whispers?
Irrelevant.
He ceases his rational gaze, forcing full concentration into the angle of the metal needle. His sweating head pivots around to the grandfather clock, which is a pure, white, colour....
Right on time.
One second to the half mark, he drives in...
"The hell with it."
One, two, three, four...
Still the blood is coarsing warm, but something cold rushes to the incision in his torn vessel. A breaking, shaking, an aching numbness is slowly spreading...
Cap pushes down further, protruding just a little more.
Five, six, seven, eight...
There is no pain that he recedes now. Like an overwhelming shadow, a wave of unbearable euphoria covers his pulsing limb, and the man is unaware of the pain, disguised as a never ending orgasm.
Cap gives way to another inch, involuntary in wait.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve...
Pleasure, vast measures of pleasure throw down temptation, altering into a relentless disease, turning his trembling blood cold. Room is as boundless as the desert now, and golden mounds begin to emerge from copper shelves.
Thirteen, to fourteen, and down deep to twenty...
Pulling away the cool sands, are the man's corrosive hands, and everything he reaches out to touch, fazes brighter, resembling solid gold. There is one thing he looks for, getting closer, while his eyes glaze over with the bitterest of honey...
Twenty to two-five, and on to thirty...
She approaches in the haze, waiting like the night awaits the day. One more eager touch that he somehow manages, but she collapses in his sunburnt hands, drowning down deep in the still-blown sands. A gong sounds off somewhere below, and it freezes him to place, rendering unable to pursue his love...
Utterly comfortable, but numb.
♠ ♠ ♠
Tying this with "Kashmir."