Post by The Joker on Feb 22, 2011 0:00:45 GMT -6
Scorching flames surround me. They are steadily burning the room around me to a crisp. I can smell the acrid scent of the old floral wallpaper melting beneath its touch. I am showered with sparks as my kitchen table collapses to the ground. Pictures and papers and cabinets crackle under the fire. Tiny rivulets of sweat roll down my face and neck, dripping from my already soaked hair. The metal of my trumpet is burning my lips, but the sad, haunting melody Miles Davis once played continues to flow from its brass horn.
I am a trumpet player.
I play the trumpet.
I used to be a husband.
I used to be a father.
I used to be a brother and a son.
I used to be a baseball fan.
I used to be a hockey player.
I used to be a happy person...
Now, as the choking flames inch ever closer, I am only a trumpet player. I only play the trumpet. The scorching metal and sweltering flames are all that's left in my world.
I used to kiss my kids good night.
I used to tell my wife I loved her.
I used to laugh and smile and joke.
I used to be a con artist.
I used to lie to everyone around me.
I used to kill innocent people.
I used to pity myself.
I used to hide my treachery.
Now I just play my trumpet.
I wait for the inevitable end of my haunting song.
I play for my broken life.
I play for everyone I hurt.
I play for the demons inside me, and the angels that come for me.
I play for the fire.I play for the heat.
I play for the smoke.
I play for the sweat.
I play for the burning room.
I play for the tears.
I play for the lonely, desolate sound that my trumpet makes.
The stifling, acrid smoke is choking me. I don't think I can play any longer. I set my beloved instrument down next to me. I can feel my skin sizzling and bubbling. I close my tired eyes and rest my head against the burning wall behind me as the eager flames finally reach me.
I wait for the angels to come for me. I wait for my demons to burn. I wait for the blackness to overpower me. I wait for the pain to end.
I am a trumpet player.
I play the trumpet.
I am a trumpet player.
I play the trumpet.
I used to be a husband.
I used to be a father.
I used to be a brother and a son.
I used to be a baseball fan.
I used to be a hockey player.
I used to be a happy person...
Now, as the choking flames inch ever closer, I am only a trumpet player. I only play the trumpet. The scorching metal and sweltering flames are all that's left in my world.
I used to kiss my kids good night.
I used to tell my wife I loved her.
I used to laugh and smile and joke.
I used to be a con artist.
I used to lie to everyone around me.
I used to kill innocent people.
I used to pity myself.
I used to hide my treachery.
Now I just play my trumpet.
I wait for the inevitable end of my haunting song.
I play for my broken life.
I play for everyone I hurt.
I play for the demons inside me, and the angels that come for me.
I play for the fire.I play for the heat.
I play for the smoke.
I play for the sweat.
I play for the burning room.
I play for the tears.
I play for the lonely, desolate sound that my trumpet makes.
The stifling, acrid smoke is choking me. I don't think I can play any longer. I set my beloved instrument down next to me. I can feel my skin sizzling and bubbling. I close my tired eyes and rest my head against the burning wall behind me as the eager flames finally reach me.
I wait for the angels to come for me. I wait for my demons to burn. I wait for the blackness to overpower me. I wait for the pain to end.
I am a trumpet player.
I play the trumpet.