Graveyard of Morbidness

A dark colloquial of losing order...

I could suffocate in the thick, musty stagnant air if I stay in this kitchen any longer.

Yet, you are standing there, such a strange blinding vision of misplaced elegance, wearing a face full of make up - the powdered crust thick and bone-pale, just like Miss Havisham behind the glass of the hearse I saw last week.

Crimson lips and darkened lashes - as if you were ready for a grand ball in that tattered gown, like a jilted bride.

Photo by Ilona Frey on Unsplash

It hurts my eyes just by looking at you, and I have no idea what to make of it.

Back to reality: on the stove is a gray, lackluster bubbling pot of lentil soup, stretched thin by the last of your menial pocket money which you've tried to garnish with a few shriveled, dried bloom petals.

Gray soup decorated with decay. What wretched farce are you playing at?

This place feels like an abandoned house of horror.

Even a ruthless bandit leader, looking for a score, would passover this place; there is no gold here, only the visible weightless cobwebs festooned across the walls like tattered shroud and the heavy, invisible weight of a heartbreak that has settled into the old floorboards.

Outside, the garden is a graveyard of morbidness, where the Death-watch robin keeps its silent vigil over the rotting yard. There is no song here, only the weight of what has been lost.

The birdbath is a stagnant basin, covered with brown, dead leaves that have sat so long they now act as swimming floats for the ants and beetles -such a tragic sight.

As you move around the kitchen, your movements zombie-stiff, reaching for the icebox.

Have you taken out your leftover sage tea from the freezer yet? You should never have put it there.

Even the most potent medicine herbs are rendered useless when you freeze the life out of them.

It is no longer a tonic; it is a vitriol of ice, much like the bitter shard of regrets and memories you're trying so hard to mummify.

Contest: Easter Eggery Part I / Oster-Eierei Teil I

Note: I didn't know what overcame me. Maybe I'm consuming too much Shakespearean literature. I saw these writing prompts and thought they were interesting words, and I sat down to write without any sort of darkness - in fact, I was thinking about brighter things because @weisser-rabe mentioned spring, children and Easter holiday in the announcement.

But when I started to type, it turned out half like this. I felt like I had walked into a Gothic house of horror, minus the freezer. So, I went over it again and let the bottle of Gothic ink tip over.

This story is an artistic accident, not a personal crisis.

©Britt H.

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