Trail

Fields of beheaded flowers greet the eye of the mourning traveller. He smelled of stale wine and expensive cologne. The sky was livid pink. Aeroplanes had cut up the still slumbering clouds.
The dog was weary. It had been carrying its master for several miles. But this was normal. And the animal was close to the end anyway. It, unlike its master, had a sober grasp on its own mortality.
Both man and beast wore silver whiskers and kept their lonely souls company by whistling at the mysterious night sky.
Neither were happy. Neither were sad. Inevitability was a staunch component of both’s madness.
And in the evil morning, with the thick paws leaving a dying trail in the winter rain, a guttural grown seeped from the comatose man.
As the man snores, the animal dreams of ways to destroy them both.

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