The Golden Scar
The wire is hot. It bites into your palm. You do not let go. The iron fence separates the garden from the street. It separates the dead from the living. It separates you from the world. The crowd gathers. They hold signs. They shout. You are ten years old. Your hands shake. The blood drips onto the grass. It is red. It is hot. Your mother stands behind you. She wears a grey dress. Her face is a...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen