Indigo the last but one visible. I am conspicuous too, in that I am the penultimate action of the dead. I am the reach, the final reach, before the one action that took a life. I am like the lip that formed the words. The tongue lame in the argument. The premise on the breath. The anvil of thought, on which the head, head metaphorically hammered. Like a knuckle, a fist on a door. The name, the bang, bang rattle in a babys pram. And the screech of tyres on tarmac. The scream of devotion. The frustration and the night. The black damned book binding, leatherette sleeve of the bible bashed neck. The flame and the pitiful ring of truth. Then the numb sense of betrayal. The weeping over the scale of the injustice. Then the trench tight tough drain of emotion. The exhausted life. The plunge of a knife. I was the motivation before the suicide.
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