A scuffling of glass on the pavement, lying and glinting where it doesn’t belong


Clicking, clicking and ever, muffled voices over a garbled phone-line, desperate breathing coupled with cracking voices and a threatening sob,

exhaust-reek and tumultuous waiting fill heads and nostrils alike with a curling sensation of wretched anticipation

Blood and asphalt smell mix with the smoke, warm and fascinating and terrible, and heads turn and eyes gaze on while the ever disagreeing stomachs scream and shriek for the head to turn back the other way

Avert, avoid, it doesn’t exist then

But the reality lies in those prevalent scents, and the pain of it lingers languid in them.


Wide eyed and not living, bright eyes with bent necks, split skin, we become them. we are their silent, open mouthed screams, turned to hushed gasping and murmured prayers, little, little whispers of panic and disbelief.


After a little, after the haze of siren-song and metallic sawing, they are freed, limp and lifeless and alluring, and the audience looks on.


Again, the scuffling, and switching of weights from metal wrecks to the possibility of a saved life for those who have not already met with their shaded Pomp.


And here within minutes, within a quarter of an hour, the street is clear. the dead are removed, the convicted away and apprehended.

The asphalt remains unclean as it stays burned behind the eyes of all who knew and saw the blood run across a clear pane of glass, and tasted that bile in their throats.  


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