Hello ladies and lads, I couldn't really sleep so I sort of conjured up some word vomit. It might not make sense, but it was really nice to write. Er, so please review and enjoy :)
I imagined the scene as Easy company marching somewhere through a town in France or Belgium, where Doc Roe sees a young prostitute and what he and she may have thought.
I tried to write in a poetic style, it doesn't really have a flow to it; it sort of came out as colourful word puke. Some inspiration drawn from the A-Team by Ed Sheeran.
Heavy boots spark fire when they graze the cobblestone.
He's moving quickly, so quickly he can't even hear. When he sees them he doesn't think he'll ever want to eat Mama's scarlet gumbo again.
White, white, white. Red, red, red. Sometimes he wonders if they wear thorns on their head.
The boy, he's made sick all over himself, but it's too late, the scarlet has seeped too deep.
There's always tomorrow, they say.
Heavy boots put nail through the pavement. Trudge, trudge, trudge. Deeper and deeper through the grain of poppy seed earth.
He sees her.
Frigid doll, thighs bare. Much too cold for that, he thinks.
She whispers desire to the man in front, she's confident but there is timid in her coat. Her lips quiver and smile, her eyes hesitate.
She see's ice cream castles, pale flowers falling from the sky. The men on the ground, they've had too much cherry to eat, she thinks.
She sees him.
Rosy nose, bruised eyes. Seen too much for his young age.
He knows the ground; his eyes of Horus hardly leave. Quiet phoenix, gentle touch.
Chilled crimson cross, he pities her. He sees red lights, lost souls and Storyville scars.
Gaze meets, hell fire flames lick their feet. Maybe they are already there, they think in one.
No, they couldn't be. There are no angels in hell, they think. It has to be cold for them to fly.
The humble lion and the weary fawn bid one last stare.
They'd think about each other every day, until the warm wept and they finally fell back to earth.