SNOWFLAKE: PART 3
Not knowing where to turn, he headed back to his hometown and made a left
Down towards the old rusty bus stop, walking slowly and pensively in thought as he did so
“Well, I’m here now,” he said
“And I still don’t know what the future holds for me!”
“Come to think of it, what time is it?” A groan escaped his lips
“Maybe I should ask the mirror I reflect BOTH THINGS when I get home!”
Walking home, cause the bus
Just takes way too damn long for his shortly lit patience stored in his emotional short-circuited fuse box
He walks to his house
Surrounded by some really thick, big green trees
“Wow, wow, wow, wow sir! Watch where you’re going!”
A man in a business suit was accidentally shoved into the middle of the road across the street
When the one hopeless, fuzzy future guy shoved his shoulder into him when just trying to get home.
And planted him dead smack in the middle of the busy, bustling street
Where he was almost ran over by twenty-three large trucks and cars, caring little for his endangered safety
“Well, I’m so, so sorry, buddy. Would you like me to kiss your feet in apology? Just leave me be, ok?”
The hopeless future guy said it bored and wanting to die tonight
Not a very good feeling he had at all. No sir, a negative, troublesome one that haunted him until he managed to set his first footstep into his tiny, mouse-sized house
There, he had all the tools he needed to cut himself
Cut himself with medieval loyalty
Not stopping to admire his self-inflicted wounds
Just blindly following as a knight
Going to war
For his ruling king and queen
A butcher knife and a cute satchel he kept
He kept mostly to himself
The exception was that best friend
The one
That had now ended up betraying him
The true colours revealed themselves
When he had
Asked his friend about the future
So fuck that guy
Oops
He didn’t mean to drop a swear
He doesn’t like using swears
He used to use them a lot before
So he made it a rule
That he would give himself one single,
Deep cut
Every time he spoke those kinds of foul words
His mother would have to wash out his mouth with clean soap
Well, she would have to
If she was still alive, anyway
He figured
That it was just one more thing
That he could and would be willing
To end up cutting himself over
The medieval instruments called his name
A big, wide stone wall
Full of armament that the gladiators like to use
To the left lay many wine bottles
Of his own possessions
All arranged neatly on tables
Like museum art pieces
The only hobby or interest
This lost future person enjoyed
Was getting drunk on lotsa, lotsa wine
He had dreamed of being a wine maker, a vintner
Because of his love for the drinks
But got drunk before an interview,
Having drank lotsa wines,
Went to it drunk,
And blew his chance up
For that to ever happen again
What a shame
As he reached for the Morningstar,
Mace, sword and spiked, vicious shield
To inflict
Irresistible damage upon his physical-self
His mental and emotional selves were torn
Would he be eaten alive by his dull future years?
Or, would he be able to survive and then eat the dull future years alive?
As he started to perform slices on himself
He wondered aloud:
“Just how will my future ever be bright enough to please and satisfy me?”