The last words were spoken, and the regrets came flowing in like vein cut off from the supply and now gasping for its depending nutrition, unknowingly killing the final ounce of life from within. The dry, coarse throat made a final screech and that imposing rage, no matter how strong, was still inadequate and nevertheless weak. The loss at that point was overbearing, attacking its host slowly before it moves to annihilate completely the empty cartridges of blood. The hydrocephalic head burst upon impact, and the score was totally nullified. It was not about the humiliation or the point of attack, moreso the execution, the will to succeed and the unwillingness of willpower itself. For whatever purpose mental sharpness served it was never evident, and now set the stage for chance's funeral. An undead metaphor to serve as the reminder of conflicting loss. The tragedy of storytelling.
The eyes were not blind, and neither were of course the audiences'. For whatever its worth convincing the mind that pain does not linger is unbecoming, for there will always be moments that it will, no matter how far the tall steps take. Mend, mayhap a yes, but forgotten eternal.