Prose

PROSE

By Darcy Prince (knowledge variable)

No matter how much effort is put forth, no amount of it, could ever fade a star. The heart is open, as the secrets written out in poetry, it holds corruption and sin. Humanity shall die, as death shall have life, holler at me, better not find where you stay, so much pain can only be so much strain on one’s thread of existence. As for most are only flowers with perfume, colour without beauty, motion without meaning, huddling together, talking outloud in glory but whisper words of vain in dark when you’re not around, stepping over broken shells, wind without direction, shade without light, dwellers of normal, charming the mundane to hold false-celebrity, rats crawling over wooden planks, yearning without work, collective without individuality, selling their souls. I’m a phantasmagoria wild and tame places of earth, making love with the worlds seen only by the dead, developing in struggle to become a fate would-have character, it’s bountiful richness, surpassing the riches of Egyptian and Roman empires, that includes poetry in it’s entire collection of human history, with those lay and wonder in the dark, holding strings, titans and art-trenders, catching the void of life and mastering it, in ease and boundless leaps. Awakening in all its forms and everything I touch, it’s merely now, illuminated. Until I self-destruct. Catch me if you can, like the gingerbread-man, there is no one to hold onto, no one to hear my callings, so I end up falling, I’m worldwide and not hard to find, death can only bring only myths and stories to tell. Last I heard at home, to see what rumors are spreading, it’s just murmurs that I’m dead.