The one, red block S Reeson

S Reeson

The one, red block

dust settles, over carnage, as a protagonist weeps, without a sound, just the water: tears the size of petit-pois, pooling round their ankles, barefoot yet bound every contradiction of an unsound mind

twenty six seconds before, all of this glorious block puzzle, memories of green stacked in threes, built in opposition piled so that this time it was impossible to bring the structure down, is toast, as

Critical finds one, red block, tugging pushing, forcing fucker out, because why should they be allowed to live in peace have, eat nice things or even just exist when no-one else must build as well as them

every time they hide a block, somebody comes with roasts and ignorance before attempt is made to feed them to the mob all they want, quiet moments of aplomb not idiots to stand, abuse, then bomb

bored now, Critical pockets the block walks away, and so begins a tower’s slow, considered reconstruction, hoping as the fight is one meal lighter it might stay, remain intact with calm… or simply left alone