Polvora

There’s no one in the shadows, just messages on the answering machine and the smell of gunpowder in the room and sheets of paper that know they’ll never get a reply.
Quietly they watch how all that noise suddenly ended in silence.
The walls, mute from the shock of horror, blush.
Witnesses to the end of a decaying humanity.
The streets are empty, filled with filthy beings lacking honor and a thousand stories to forget. Close your eyes and just look around.
In a single moment, a single bang.
The message is repetitive and they already own your conscience.
Will it end?
Everything’s wrong, it’s not going to change.
The world belongs to those who know how to lie. Better to be a winner or just die.
Fake perfection, humiliate the loser. Don’t cry, that’s not something a man should do.
You can’t understand the rules of the game and believe me, they’re not going to lose.
They’ll laugh and point at you, that’s what they call winning.
And you’re just a loser and they’re not going to forgive you.
You’ll see them enjoy making you cry out of helplessness.
Alone, at home. Everything seems to spin around them.
All the memories are bad. I just wish I could forget, for that filthy and constant storm to calm down on its own.
Intense cold.
Always aware of what the solution was.
Sweating with humor turned to desperation.
And that’s how the end arrives.