As still as light he slept so sound, within his skin lay creases rough. His hair finely cropped soon shoot leaves forth. His demon was human. His beginning was nigh. In a cage he slept, in noiseless feud in utter silence kept, may never once again breathe his last; it was never begun as all his dreams turn to ash. Whilst I walked through room and room, in mazes gone and darkness brought, mine eyes beheld my brother in utter sleep diminishing from what I once knew into a figure within the cage wherein he slept. So soon I recall he began to shrink and with time erased so soon, so fervent can last his eyes to never open again lest cries adorn shall forsake our dearest mandrake beheld.

For an hour I witnessed, for an hour I saw, and no tears nor bitter weeping would slow the progress upon which he dips deep within the bowels of his natural slumber ere must awaken for witness come so honest real. When silent tears, I, as man, can only hold down so deep though eyes pouring could only have fed this mandrake in meagre grown, now gowned with horseradish skin. His legs once so bodied and human had now turned and shrunk to mandrake legs.

Our dear parents whom could never forget, their eyes of what majesty their Lord their God had bequeathed a curse in what comedy fools can only play though intellectuals weep in critique of fond garnish at the mystical brought our world today. If Trump were so sound, let this be muse to his meagre voice.

At the eight hour of his turning, our dear brother shrank to no more than a ruler’s length, his entire figure once above four-and-thirty had now diminished to just an eight. So little time we understood and yet we cannot comprehend. He was still asleep. His same face once I saw just the night before slowly became a baby’s slumbered sleep like first it was from hence it sprang. Like picking up a premature infant, I stood before the cage and held my brother in my two hands whose wet figure now composed no blood, no sweat, no nothing.

Shaking was my mother’s hands who delivered our brother to his father and within a second how frantic he was brought us for a drive for help. He was frantic. He couldn’t rationalise anything; it was as though he himself was about to die this day. It was as though he was called to question. Even he put the seatbelt on our mandrake, in whom there was almost no trace of him left. Tears alone could not describe my tears, for no tears here could ever be ushered for song no more.

Our dear parents would look back every few seconds, and yet still our brother slept. So meagre he lay still. At that moment, all was still, in the crisp of dawn that cracked through our windows in sombre shade to bellowing light shall blind our solemn eyes in angels weep. So whilst our father looked back, he could only hold still a figure once he knew, and all I thought he was soon came to me in memory and in anguish. All the days once I hated him soon came to love him. All the days I once dreamt of escape now finally came to family again. All the nights I sleep now shall be my first I shall remember him by.

Category:
Abstract, Humanity, Prose, Works
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