A pestilence attacks you from the inside, and used vertices, straight lines, to defeat you. The pestilence knows you. Its atoms mimic and mock you, a living strain from fury sands that proves the obliteration of goodness on earth.
An angel can see you, but she cannot help you, she can only reflect what you are, mortal, by her own oppositeness. She is round, wholesome, nurturing and life-affirming, your temporary respite as you lay down to sleep with your own colors. And how naively you toted those colors. How naively you immersed with them, entered oblivion with them, maybe a young child walking through leaves, or looking at posies, feeling a gentle breeze caressing the back of your neck, the sun temporary, the day temporary, and wondering what it all meant, why the world seethed, bled, begged, pleaded and bartered, for your colors, to saturate them with its own, your sullying a tasting, finally, on mortality’s day.