Black Flag

On that hilltop a flag flutters in the wind, not of the victor’s arrogant purple that shines from behind that sky, not of the blood-soaked red that lies on the battlefield of the defeated, but of the black that is darker than death. On the plains a flag waves in the breeze, not of the deep blue that looks at tomorrow with hope, not of the pure white the promise of everlasting peace, but of the black that is darker than death. Death is a blossom of a flower blooming in a forsaken wearied loser’s bosom, death is the thing that is to be buried in the grave somewhere in the utterly forgotten space and renounced. Death is like tears that stand in the lonely one’s sorrowful heart to form a puddle for a while, and though it may leave traces, they soon vanish away in the river that never ceases to flow.