Living my heart at rest in the nest, a feast in the wolves’ den doesn’t seem that scary as thought.
If I can still make a fist, a one-time flex for my beliefs isn’t an option.
Betrayed by “brother” a million times, torn and broken into pieces isn't close to the meaning.
For all plots, the last tie, in turn, is “I thought we were brothers”. “Even when I gave in my last coin, we weren’t in this together?”
Maybe it's the price you pay for the goods you drown into the sea.!!
Ok!! Even if I cry out my heart, tears won’t nudge a single soul though revenge ain’t on the recipe.
I just want to let you know that I won’t stop dropping that “one for the road”
About the Creator
Fred Musoke
I want to give my writing a fragrance. I mean, that redolence which won’t only outlast my generation, but will also nudge the souls on Mars.
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I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford5 days ago in Fiction
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