The End of The Road.

The chin raised in defiance,
the hand raised in frustration.

The face stoically defiant,
the face open like a book written full of passion.

The lack of an attempt at yielding,
the over exertion through yielding too much.

The careless word spoken,
the spirit finally broken.

The cool dismissal,
the frustrated gesturing.

The refusal to agree.




As he moves out of his seat to walk away,
a final desperate attempt to underline his points
through a loud thump on the table. Hoping,
however wistfully that the punctuation might invoke
some miracle; enlightening her naive self salvaging
whatever sad dregs, the remnants of all the past that
they shared.


Headstrong and selfish. Self righteousness dripping from
every pore, her refusal to yield. Proud as a horse,
head held high in defiance, eyes glaring, challenging what
authority that has presented itself. Speaking without
words, listening without the ears. Her expression- or
the lack thereof- convey all that she refuses to say.




As shadows envelop all that's left of his facade,
she reaches for her bag, slowly but surely, hypnotically,
producing a cigarette. That cylinder containing all the poison
in the world. She lights it up, burning the fag, as she's
done with the rest of her life.

On the path to self destruction.
What she might do next, no one will know.







And all I could do was to squat and stare, blankly at what
amazing grace she had. How she'd carried herself, even
in the face of such adversity. Was it just her folly, plain naivete?


I didn't know, and I would never find out.
I had to get home soon, anyway. It was already 12.30
in the morning and the Store had to be closed. I could
only sweat, stare and wonder.