A suction tube sinks, through his veins and sinks deep to his heart. The dawn is breaking. Brothers sit at the sea shore. The waves slap each other at the ocean coast. He walks towards the ocean. The waves seem to chase him away. They gnarl and grin. Warning him to stay away from the water or they clutch him. The sound of the owl signals a time to sleep. In his room he enters. Sticky notes on the wall. Stories they tell. The wall is yellow. He sleeps but like a dark knight he hardly sleeps. His brothers smile away.
In the dark he stays, pondering and pacing. He has been denied access to his own. A lockdown. He is suffocating. By the air around him that pretends to be cool. He listens to what they tell him. He advises and like wounded chicken he trusts them. The heartless seek to quench their thirst by sucking blood out him. The blood oozes of him, the vampires rejoice and take the opportunity. Through him they have known and met a nourishing and blossoming plant. It blossoms like a winter in full dress; it sustains but belongs to him. It is purple with pink petals, highly attractive, with a bvulagari scent.
They take advantage when he is away, locked in thoughts, deciphering codes and deceptively they reach for the plant. They shut all doors. Tell the plant shut up. Try to quench it. It talks to him, like a worthy and faithful servant. He listens and smiles away. Anguish burns his heart close to explosion. The plant alone talks. Deception wedges rip through the friends’ hearts. Still no-one talks to him. They all smile at him, like nothing happened. Like the plant yearning for the next rainy season, he watches and waits. He acts normal, yet the sting remains in the skin. It rips through the joints and sockets of his body. The dark angel with a black rope riding a heavily black colored horse, smiles.
The raindrops are burning, when they touch the skin it turns red, blisters grow and a pale face turns pink. The life to him is normal. They are his closest friends. His eyes gaze at them with hopelessness. They are in charge of his life but they take away this one plant he owned. Privately they plot. He has no option but to let the blisters grow. He believes “everyman has his time.” But natural justice may take forever. Drench by deception around him, the dagger reaches his heart and like the clouds that form the rain, his heart cries from deep within.
For friends and forever remain two different words.
“Righteousness is good character, and sin is that which revolves in your heart and which you do not want people to know.” Prophet Muhammad