Spelling Of The End

A splash of red coloured the soil. Before the earth could absorb the scent of the flowers and make the colour its own, worms from deep below made their way through every earth pore.

The surface was a polka dot of brown and red. Like silver ribbons, the worms moved around. The sun did not want to be left behind. It slanted its rays to make the worms glow a warm yellow.

The atmosphere beheld the beauty, spellbound. It didn’t want anything to tarnish the beauty. Sadly, the very thought conjured the destroyers.

Muddy green boots shook the ground.
They soon trampled the beauty with their footwear and their angry gaits. The crushed worms squirmed in pain till they melted into a slush. The polka dots now looked like the painter’s painting, destroyed by pigeon poop.

The pigeon that came in uninvited in the painter’s room through the open window and decided to make merry on the easel that held the magnificent art.

Birds that were gazing at Earth’s beautiful art chirped in protest. The butterflies in dread waltzed away in search of beauty gain.

Trees shook in fear. Leaves shivered and fell like rain. Yet, the feet did not stop. They marched along.

Some of the marchers chanted war cries- a deafening fear- unshaken, unshakable. Others animated dread as their mind spelt the heinousest of ideas.

Through the plains and the river banks, the feet moved along. Left. Right. Left.

A sudden swoosh no one could intercept fell like a wishing star from the sky and landed right ahead of the marching feet.

The battle cry turned into howls and moans- Oohs! Ahhs! Oh, noooos!

Before the deafening screams quelled, more marching feet shuffled their way through.
Left. Right. Left.
Left. Right. Left.

The rhythm brought in mayhem. More shooting stars fell. No marching steps retreated. No stars refused to fall.

A war had begun. The war with no vision of an end.

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