Torn

© 2011 by Duane Kirby Jensen

 

Note: Text in sketch is rough. The content below shows revision and my be revised again once moving to the painting stage.

 

Echos upon echos within his head screamed “Why!Why! Why! – are the doing this to me, to us...?” Having never felt his body before, he could not feel them tear him apart limb by limb, but he understood the pain of violent separation – the knowledge of pain the only reality he could tap into. Trapped in the the terror of his mind without the relief of death.

He could still hear the howls of the mob – and the fleeing minds of his kind – running for their existence.

For now he could only wait to find out his fate and hope that his compatriots escaped to continue their search for that which called their name.

Dry eyes hunger for moister.

to shed real tears

that stream down the face,

then fall into the dust

of yesterdays dreams.