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Prose attempt 1

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  • Prose attempt 1

    During these times, we need kindness, we need laughter that can't lacerate what we may or mayn't understand. If we were to be bright, and shining, our pelted hides would not scare Nature into her intrepid loops. I remember this time of such fear, and disconnect, has brought me through the troublous waters. I smile where it doesn't hurt, and begin to attempt smiling the hurt, too. My world is caked dirt upon some woman's foot, and her daughter has daughters in the past that she cannot forgive. But I am dead.
    To be, as ot were, alone; a structure of my bravery, I guess, until the silent hands of humanity begin tearing me to little pieces, with ragged wings, darkened skies, and circling. Harpies. They are not brave because they cry. They only want to hear Lyra tell her lie.

    Vaster than a dungeon that her words built to fortress Hope and Sanctity; an empire in flames. Vaster than beneath each citadel the fallen soldiers pray. Your crosshair I watch, until I am implicated ... until I am insane, just as much as I have always been, just as much as everyone. And resigned to my poetry.

    Where my double kept hinting, I slew the tribune of inchoate Thought. I wanted silence anyway, see. I am and I was and I still will be confused, see. Under the guise of some transformation, I was brought to the opposite's war. I never belonged here.

    I never belonged here, Mother.

    All these words are passionate, all of them dead. It hurts, Father. To know how much more You are. Mother's blood in the sky, over the seas, brooding, and landing in the trees to wake up the red snakes. I wish to be a pauper, but can't describe how fearful Love would make me. I wish to set free this world I left behind, which in our turns we each learned to imprison the other. I want to tell the world that I no longer need you. That my Mother whether right or wrong can't hurt me anymore.

    That Father will take care.

    Because while the flame blooms my heart breaks, and it breaks, and it's footprints in the forest next to the shore. Windy night. I can't look at God because God is enflamed. Because while the egg breaks and yolk runs snd my yellow feelings turn, there is an escape: beyond my hurtful rage, and ire. It stops me until I can't stand anything; alone, a little boy, a little girl. A strong woman made weak by chikdish eyes. A boy with a blue shirt on, hugging Dad who just got a hair cut.

    Rasping. Because the naked hurts of winter have scorched and stripped until the frozen blue theme of Imparted Hell laid me down like a bunch of popsicles. Until I couldn't reach the aching sun, and she never looked for me again. And I broke God's heart, and I watched the castration that made my bitter blather mean nothing. God unamused.

    And I plead: Jerusalem, Israel, have I forgotten you, or have you forgotten me? To tell me why so many of these orphans have no where to go. Because they aren't warmer for the names they've been given. Nor does the border between this world and that one help me to decide where I want to be.

    A final let down that I'm okay with.
    Finally ugly, and beyond worry, and undreaming nights of this.

    Dead silence writhing on the end of my line. ---

  • #2
    Title ideas?

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    • #3
      I must first commend you on your fount of prose. Cutting images, well conceived.

      How about Dangling Into Destiny?

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