sorrow


Rain, rain, rain.  It drips from the skies as angles weep over the wrongs of the world. Innocence stolen by those who reap it in sheafs  and pile it upon wagons heading to  markets where merchants bid on the broken husks.  The touch of death hangs a collar on them all, from the babe in arms to the granther taking his last breath, stealing what life, what love, what hope they have left.  They serve out their sentence of pitiful life tolling through dark streets, backs saddled with heavy weights of doubt and worry.  Within years the lucky ones were only hunch backed, while those who were cursed with the fingers of the gods of spite became twisted loathsome creatures that no one recognized.

The rain came down harder while those in the streets tucked their heads down lower, slogging through the ever present muck.  Some slipped in the mire, covering themselves with  sewage.  Some struggled to rise, to take their burdens further, while others sank defeated into the sludge.  The horde behind them pressed tired feet into the backs of the fallen, pressing them deeper until nothing remained.

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