Tarnish: Bridge Over Clouds

There came a knock. Not loud. Not precise. Not innocent.

The spirit of the night outstretched.

The man, a man, some spirit, a soul, yawned (habit) because of lack of action (no movement - stiff legs). Action lacking. And he felt slightly annoyed but was at consent with his duty. Got up, danced the remembrance of pleasure, (displeasure) and laced the barred gate aside. Wind. And so his indolence blew away when seeing soldiers, by their attire probably being the King’s men, standing tall with supreme confidence and unlikely arrogance. Their leader, a man with definite broad shoulders, brown hair and blue eyes, spoke sparingly of their cause. How boring. Convicts, murders, search; cares who? Who. Cares. Nodded in retrospective flashbacks. (Wife. Kids. Fire. House. Flames. Love.)

Nodded. Felt foolish for doing so the second time. Pointless, felt he. Let the soldiers pass. Eyeing their every move. Job. Not that many of them. Only briefly mentioned their purpose. Coal nights. Breeze. Long nights.

Dire.

Indeed, the soldiers felt also the cold. Felt it when entering various encroaching inns. Saw it when humans quickly packed all foreseeable gambling implements away. Away. Stares. No point. Sensed it with friendly smiles and petty talk. Fake.

Grey. Shades. Forward. Grey shades. Shadows. Flashes of uninterrupted, unspeakable fear. Fear and death. Gloom. All around. Sweat. People shouting. Hold on. Locked jaw. Headache. Snap. Shades of gray.

Noise. Some drunk’s glass came down too hard. Fool. Uncontrolled motor-skills. Awareness. Sprang like a mousetrap.

And yet no one seemed to realize what was happening. What they were on about. Who, for that matter, they were looking for. Luckily, no one found it difficult to accept the notion that there were thousands of royal soldiers outside the main gates. Gullibility. Exploit it. Not learned a lot of that. Special military training that. This is just the dirt. Not enough.

Housewives. Screaming children. Babies’ wails like a rampant sound wave. Racket. Times. Interruption. At times, welcoming, distracting light.

Babies, need them, won’t have them, though, showoffnoncelikesrekcufrehtom. Put them away. Madam. Please. No one wants to hear them. Must have them.

Sparkling eyes. Expectations; rather, expecting. Climbing stairs. Rattling bars. Cold surrounding. Creaking floorboards. Ragged clothes. Tattered, stinking, children.

Money helped. Only the sound of clicking coins (ringing and echoing like the sound of a god’s laughter) and men in charge with proper authority (badges) made people shiver with excitement. Someone there. Real someone. Pang of reality. Pretence. Not just some ordinary neighbor. Oh, and the prospect of no more poverty awakened each man and woman from torrid, useless, slumber. I pity nothing but the cleverness. See nothing but the doubtfulness. Feel nothing but the effervescent darkness. Desdemona.

Darkness, don’t you see it? No, for, man, I see nothing but haunted, crazy, looks upon the minds of many. I see the sleepless dark rings around their eyes. I see the pain with which they carry their weathered souls. And what do you see, sergeant?

Grains of dust, timeless as the time when time meant something, feel (fell) as a reminder to the walking leather boots and pale, butter hawks. There is duty and there is pride. Which is which? Interlaced. I’m sure someone has an answer.