Death of Prosperous

I wrote this last year at a point where I was isolating myself from the people around me. I re-worked it and present it to you now. Enjoy.

The air was concrete, spilling into me to choke the doors.  The little stones crack all the windows.  The hardwood was covered in black tar that pinched at my toes and swallowed the argument.  The air smelt of shame and secrets.  The walls were smothered floor to ceiling in frames.  

Boxes, ovals, long, short.  Thick, reflective, old, rotten.  Dirty, diseased, clean, squeaky.  

The people in them sobbed and wailed.  

God was in one.  Mother in another.  Father, friends, and relatives all had their own.  Everyone had a frame.  Their eyes stalk me, lovers of their whispers and tears.  Their whispers become shouts.  Their shouts become screams.  They stepped out of their frames and all stood there in the thickening tar.  My God stepped forward.  He looked at me, and then turned around to crawl back into his frame.   

“I tried”, I whisper.  

My family lit the floor on fire, and I just stood there because I was afraid that if I moved I would burn faster.  I watched the frames melt with sighs and the frames screamed in a final act of repentance.  My world burned around me and I just listened and watched. 

I stood among my world.  I scooped up its ashes and put them in a coffin meant for the prosperous life.  I set it afloat in the smudged river and was alone with my grave.

Author's Note

I'm trying to find a balance between simplicity and detail and how to find a balance between the two that has the most impact on the reader. Any constructive comments would be greatly appreciated.

Ignore any grammatical errors.