"Desolate"
I rip another piece off the wall,
Then another,
And another.
I take down beautiful paintings and portraits,
Aggressively, angered.
Colors become a mere blur as destruction falls around me.
What once were refined color palettes specific to their piece were now muddled,
now becoming a part of noise.
Colors, shapes, figures and textures bleed together at my feet as the pile grows, and as I move around the room.
Walls become bare with flat color, their personality striped from them. All that remained were dents, holes and blemishes. All that remained, was nothing of meaning. All that remained was what had been before.
I stumble over the ground, over myself. I stumble over everything.
I stumble, for there is nothing more to hold onto, nothing more to keep my balance, nothing more to stabilize my grace.
Nothing to nurture my humanity.
I collapse out of exhaustion and grief, onto everything that is I, but is everything I'm no longer.
The blank walls tower over me like titans,
expressionless, dull, but all knowing.
Demanding, powerful.
Emotionless. Uninspiring.
I stare back with an unmatched bitterness, a temper born of nothing but fear and the desire to be.
I never saw beauty in those walls. Never even once.
As I lay on a floor made of my own skeleton and skin, it's apparent my power to behold means nothing any longer.
Unless I should be asked what I think
of those walls;
to which I can only respond-
"They're perfect as they are.”
~by SpooksOfHorror