Cure
Lying on a not-so-soft-rectangular-foam, an artificial wind blows through Endymion's face. His mind was flooded by thousands of thoughts where most of it was like a poison that rushes entirely on his veins, deadly. He ignored the pain it costs, 'coz queries appeared and it needed answers. He tried to cure himself, or at least he thinks he needed to be cured.
He lumbered to a door, wishing it was a portal whose destination was a refuge. Endymion twisted the knob with such enthusiasm and hope, but was nonchalant in the face. His destination was, definitely not a refuge, a patio. The sky was invaded by the color of black, and scattered tiny twinkling dots of white, or yellow, or red ,or sometimes blue. He heared engines screamed as it passed the patio. And wondered if those people who, at that time, are already having dreams could hear it too. Again, he wondered, how did those humans have problems or somewhat anxieties like his, or at least some infinitesimal thoughts could still managed to sleep calmly at night? He got envious. He looks at the moon, then he closes his eyes and muttered, "Enough."
YOU ARE READING
Far Side of the Moon
PoetryNow, I am exposing what's on the unlit part of the moon. What you haven't seen. What you haven't heared. What you do not know. In form of poorly written poetries, prose and short stories. Highest rank: #4 in Poetry (08/06/17)
