The Workshop discussion

Nothing can compare to the peculiarity of our ways
When our capacity of reason ends
And the flames creeping up the trail of gasoline
Streaking the highway reach the horizon
Resulting in the magnificent destruction of human kind.

We hang our thoughts and feelings on bare white walls,
Framed within borders, contained.
We spill our minds like we spill ink
Which stays, of course, on the aging paper.
The melodies we create are those of sorrow
And they rest suspended in strange mediums.

Surely, years later, we will be remembered.
Our legacy will not perish alongside our bodies.
No living soul would dare erase our existences
And obliterate the work of centuries.

The glorious fire engulfs the streets and the oceans,
Burns down the frames, chars the papers,
And extinguishes the stars
One by one.

r.w. — i. she struck the match against the rough surface on the side of the cardboard box. the grating sound it made was like dragging the bruised soles of your feet against hard gravel. the match emitted a fiery spark, as fleeting as a sharp breath. and then, it splintered into a million pieces.

r.w. — ii. he inhaled. he was perched on the dock next to his son who was laughing because he had gotten his fishing rod into a tangled mess. the way his crystal blue eyes lit up reminded him of himself. he exhaled. the clink of the wine glasses was lost in the summer breeze but the flowing melody of his wife's sweet laughter filled his ears. he inhaled the polluted air, the thundering sound of gunfire and the sharp pain in his chest tugging him away from the warm embrace of nostalgia and forcing him back into a blackened reality. he closed his eyes, and the last thing he saw was the innocent, shining, sun, who couldn't hear the sharp, mechanical cries of war. he exhaled, having reached the end of his final breath.