Missing Pieces

Buildings

 

A spare moment to take in his accomplishments had been thrust upon him by a sudden  shortness of breath. Leaning for support, he padded his brow with a handkerchief, the family crest mopping up the mess left by the pulsating globules, spreading like blisters. With blurred vision, he counted the cars, the windows, the ornamental art, the boats – hell, he even counted the trees.   It was all his.

His.

That single possessive pronoun clamped itself around his heart – a clenched fist bringing him to his knees. His eyes searched frantically for someone but in the end he found nothing.

 


This piece was created using the prompt (photo contributed by Rochelle) hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Addicted to Purple.  photo contributed by Sandra Crook.

13 thoughts on “Missing Pieces

Add yours

  1. Wonderful imagery in that first paragraph. I imagined this as a last gasp before death, and the realisation that materialism isn’t everything.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. That’s really well written, Mumpoet. You put your poetic skills to good use!
    I particularly like “His. That single possessive pronoun clamped itself around his heart”. That brings so much association with it – all the effort, all the struggle, all the unscrupulous deals, all the coldness and lack of love – and now that pronoun has its terrible revenge.
    Your last line is so precise and hard-hitting. “His eyes searched frantically for someone but in the end he found nothing.” A ‘nothing’ that is as profoundly nothing as you can get, the nothing that is death and oblivion.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks so much for taking the time to read, Penny and for your very kind words. I thought hard about the last line and the use of the word ‘his.’ I’m glad you took from it what I was trying to convey. Many thanks – it’s much appreciated 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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