The Faded Portrait
The rain hammers the tin roof. It sounds like nails. You are bleeding from the nose. The blood is red. The air is cold. You grip the rifle. The wood is slick. Your hands shake. They do not stop. You are in the cellar of the old mill. The stone walls weep. Water drips. It mixes with the rust. You look at the object in your hands. It is a brass pocket watch. The face is cracked. The glass is...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση