Mockingjays

by Mooner_178

First published

My remaining life could be measured in days; hope is a commodity I can no longer afford, the passing of the sun is the clock of whips readied to strike and bring order to a walking decay. The stench of those who have given in, will forever, never leave me. The blade drops and like a pest being brushed aside we resume our toil, the sunset being our respite.

What less have I got to lose?