His armies of hope lie, starved to death, across the vale, their dunce caps still attached to their heads. Waiting for burial the bodies start to turn, bleaching the once popular and pretty site with a foul stench.
In his room he shivers under his duvet. On the side are several spheres that represent his dreams and memories. Normally they float about the room lit in various colours (unless transparent) but today they sit lifeless, a sort of misty grey while what was the largest of the group has been shattered across the floor. In his hand is the largest shard, most of the blood now soaked into the sheets; a few drops resting on the surface, the final signs of what he has done.
The damage inflicted is why he shivers- arms, legs and chest cut with messages the least of his problems as his guts quiver, cut loose by the hand that normally feeds, in front of him, his left hand resting on them like they are some grotesque teddy bear. One to be cursed for the shit created inside. Others can use it to their advantage, spinning perfect public relations. He sees only shit smeared across his face and hands and is unable to turn the dream spheres to reality, shattering each one by one, marking each breakage with a day in solitude.
I adapted the title from this Hope of the States track.
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