The Blood of Promises
He was hound-muzzled and tied to the door, a wild look crawled across his face while his black empty eyes weren't taking in the light as they disappeared into the back of his head.
His jacket, a ragged mess of lost dreams and broken down desires, was splattered with the blood of promises as dry and dead as the bones of his heart.
Life had slapped him hard but he'd never woken up to it, another sleepwalking soul with no idea, another rolling stone in the stream, another cloud in the sky.
Blown around, deformed, re-twisted battered into shapes. Like a motorway crash, not a pretty sight, but hey, we all slow down to stare.
He'd swopped his life or an empty space, his feelings for drunken assertions on a Saturday night and the occasionally, annually, unfulfilling role in the hay. Not so much a lifestyle, just a poor attitude.
You know you've no friends when the mirror starts to lie, when it's two in the morning and you're still the one in the bar. When you prefer to zig-zag all the way home instead of facing the accusatory eye in the taxi's mirror. And even your heart's too heavy to second guess the driver, who knows you're alone...