The Candelabra

                  
Cloaked figures filled the air, spreading evil as they streched their wings. They roamed like vultures, coveting every ounce of happiness left as they went along. It was a time when laughter was not only forgotten, but was nothing more than a bittersweet melody echoing within the graves of the dead. Laughter was hidden among the dead. The emaciated figures underneath the sands weren't jubilated, for they uttered melodies of worry; worried laughters. They feared what good was left for their grandchildren, if there was hardly any good left. It was a time when injustice was the average, seen as a daily event that often occurs. Angels once roamed this earth, my mother once said when I was five. I knew that the opposite was the truth; the bittersweet truth. That was propably a fact we all desired to be true, and continued using it as a tool to hold on to our tomorrows; if we had any. It all started out the day the masqueraded spirits took over our village, getting their cloaks on all that was in sight. Squeels of the once melodious angels errupted in chaos, as destruction was spread all around. Painful images painted in goar and blood, highlited with the fearful  expressions everywhere. All I rememeber was my mother carrying me on her back, looking for my aunt who was swallowed by the wrath of the demons. It was a long corridor, the corridor of life that is. But she remained strong, clutching a candelabra in her right hand, searching for my aunt. We hinted her figure at the very end of the corridor, but as soon as the candelabra's light was reflected in her fearful eyes, she dissappeared into thin air, leaving nothing but golden brown smoke all over. That's how it works; you have to
reach the very end, the very end. You have to. You just have to. Time raced away, and I held my mother's candelabra, high in the air, to remain a symbol of justice, forever more.