Lupus

Oh, the ignominy of being a skeptic! My friends abandoned me in their typical fashion: A mocking wave of the brow, and a pitiless grimace. A shadow lumbers across the hall of time. The light at the end of the tunnel is Death by his lampost, his cold scythe in hand. We pounce at the day like a lion, only for it to slip out of our prying arms, leaving nothing but thumbtacks in our skin, But the cruelness beyond us is the least of our crisis. We are flailing, tumbling, gliding and cartwheeling like a plastic bag to an inner, unintentional suicide.