where dreams go to die in obscurity

Today was full of promise until the gun burned her hand. She was a spirit guide who lived in a conch shell, not a professional hitman. So the body continued to cool at her feet, and she stood there while embryonic dreams of glory shattered around her.


She should do something. Thursday was dead by her hand, and Friday was coming. There was a tempest trapped in her chest, whirling around an eye of guilt.
Why hadn’t her rage cooled? It still burned hot as a summer morning. Where was the emptiness that’s supposed to come with killing?

Why was she still standing there? Gun power residue peppered her clothes. She’d seen enough episodes of Law & Order to know that was bad. But she remained frozen, her gun hand extended, her finger still depressing the trigger. No more bullets squeezed out. The magazine was empty. Why wasn’t she?

Death had a dark velvet allure that seduced her eyes even though it stared at her with Thursday’s dead eyes. Had Thursday’s pretty mouth moved? Was the bitch mouthing prayers and profanity from her death bed? Why hadn’t death stopped those pink lips?

Twisted silk shined in the moonlight spilling in through a slit window. The gun dropped from her hands, and she was falling through sanity’s keyhole into a locked room where all was screaming insanity. Or was she the one doing the screaming?

A sword pierced her chest. Its tip shined in the moonlight as it punched out spraying arterial blood. Then she was sliding off its cold tip and puddling like a red rag on the floor.

Friday, the Ronin, tsked as she wiped the blood off her double-edged sword. “I told you not to do it. You could have tempered your rage.” She sighed and crouched by the dying woman’s side. “But you never listen to me.”

Something glinted as Friday parted the murderess’ robe. One good yank dropped a gold disc into her hand. “So much blood shed for so small a thing. What a waste.”

The Ronin rose. She tossed the compass of dreams into a shaft of moonlight then sliced a hole in space and time to store it. The fountain of youth would remain a myth for all time now.

Pivoting, she gave the latest victims of that worthless quest one last glance. Both of them shattered releasing the unspent grains of time they still had on hand. So many wasted years, so much wasted potential. Poisoned blood washed the tiled floor. And two bodies cooled, drunk now on their powerlessness.

The Ronin bent and dipped a finger into that blood. She painted a warning to the next seeker:

Stray from your love of immortality
or your flesh’ll shatter from insanity.
Youth’s fountain lies beyond infinity
where nowhere folds into rigidity
where dreams go to die in obscurity. 

Thank you to the following prompts:
#Sensewrds #beautifulmess #horrorprompt #Dewverse #madverse #inpoems #dimpleverse #BeautizmLove #orjay #MSpoetry #lunagemz #TastyPoem

Ignore if combos aren’t allowed.

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