March Writing Challenge | Day 25

Find full details of the challenge here.


Purple clouds brewed in anticipation
Teetering on the edge of their stadium
With a view of the world they lingered to witness
A story so repetitive is it even worth telling?

Yet the storm impatiently sat and waited
Buzzing, heavy, breath bated
As they did with every child who’s time it was to join them
Just in case
They were wrong.

Like an heirloom precious only to one who had long ago died
This child sat dusty among a collection of discard
An antique store that never sold a thing
But was kept out of nostalgia, like all the items inside

Home had no meaning in this child’s eyes
Only existence, a passage of time
That traversed so slowly when there was no food
And so quickly when warmth caressed the city
That it always seemed cold, and they always seemed hungry

For all children are special when they’ve parents to love them
When they’ve a bed under which monsters could hide
But monsters can’t fit under paving stones on dirty streets
They’re real, mean people, despise in their eyes.

So the thunder cursed the world yet again
And the clouds spilled tears that cried from the skies.
Whilst the wind wrapped the child in a warmth it struggled to muster
And carried the child from this hell of injustice and lies.

A descendant finally jingled the bell of the antique store door
In search of an heirloom once dearly held
Reuniting it would not erase the dishonour of its abandon
But it glinted a chance of peace on the horizon.

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