My replacement looked through me with the cold deadness about his eyes that I had once myself possessed. A man without a master, a mere puppet now without its string. An auctioning of souls, an encumbrance of guilt.
The gathering of rainclouds had drawn together the fear of many a good man for the anniversary of time. He took with him the unpaid debts of those who failed at life.
Scores of pallid faces had come to mourn, their looks aghast upon the attendance of so many of those who carry my name.
Boys climbed many a crucifix of the remaining debris which had once been our beloved homes, all to get a better view. We were there in force to stand atop the grave.
The brothers and their sons, we came to respect the living nae the dead.
There were none who stopped to lay their wreaths upon our tormentors grave. The killer and the killed, they lay now feet apart in death as they had lived in life.
The tipping of rain drenched hats as they glance my way in respect of the long since buried dead of my own. Nearby, still the flowers placed about the father's grave. The significance is not lost upon the priest.
Two Glasgow men have gone. Another year has passed and still the flowers come to mark the remembrance of the resting place of one. Their souls entwined in retribution that goes far beyond the grave.
POSTED BY JIMMY BASTARD 50 HEATHENS STOPPED HERE FOR A SWATCH.
LABELS: FLOWERS, GLASGOW, GRAVES, MONEY MAN, PRIEST, RAIN