Typical sunday chaos:
a spark of anger, barking anger.
Stark scarcity of love.
The beige clock on the
back wall ticks:
tick
tick
tick.
The predator shall hunt again,
wild with hunger—
a lust for blood and flesh.
A maddening pursuit for
the endless ego
of the heart.
“Cathartic”.
A disgusting gaze,
a strong, firm grip,
a sweaped up mind.
Justification for the action,
and disgrace for the reaction.
A song of screams, the symphony of
muffled sobs, the tune of a powerless
whimper and a shameless laughter.
Echoes: stop, stop, stop.
A deafening, engulfing, unbearable silence.
A final strike,
depicting the end of the game.
Black out.