Hearts know wisdom,
minds bash truth,
imaginations twist tales,
evil spirits reside in wayward souls.
A white rose turns red.
He crawls under the stairs to watch the merrymakers, the alcohol level tipsy. When every one has left, he licks the punch bowl and falls asleep. Mom wakes him the next morning, to flashing lights that pierce his eyes. He moans to shut the shades and mother agrees. He is left to himself.
So begins a life of booze and girls. Raised in proper manners, he never intended to live on the wild side. The taste of alcohol consumed his tongue as he chased it down, night after night.
Life for him fell apart. He lay still in his apartment, bottle of vodka in his hand. The temperature rose to 110 and his breath ceased. The countdown began. Three days passed before word reached the family. He had baked himself without a goodbye to send.
A prayer or two is lifted with no boy to drag back to his senses. The funeral ends, friends and family gather for pizza. An hour of mourning turns into jubilee. Some refuse to attend. How can life go on so merrily after such tragedy? How can this be?