Author: Maverick87 PM
A prose poem that explains nothing.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 559 - Published: 02-26-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2640245
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A prose poem released in 2009. Darren Ebbs released this in 2009 to become more in touch with the formal sense of confusion.
The quest of salvation ended and began with a touch of purity. I took myself for a happier dreamer who thought only of self-worth. It seemed like a reputable ideal at the time. The hills outside my window dance with a jolted waltz, and the mountainside is only a fortnight away. Maybe there is time to go there and reconfigure the time I respired; a touch of cleanliness, absoluteness, and God. Many times I touched the seas of noir. Many times I heard voices only the damned could hear. People talk of boastfulness and of aristocracy as if they defined the words.
There's a sense of being right.
A final touch of Oblivion's light.
I heard the tale of the "Walrus and the Carpenter". Should I destroy the cutest colonies and destroy an impossible ant mound? That sounds a little overzealous to my refined sensibility. The door before me is wooden and built of two centuries. Two hundred years of craftsmanship and work makes me feel a little overwhelmed. Who am I to deserve to live here? Haughty actions combined with traditional values aren't enough to make rightness. That is what Queen Victoria commanded.
A tear streaks to make me remember the touch of a woman's face. The illustration of being born wrong lingers. The townsfolk talk with a spirited touch. Religion spats at my beliefs with the wrong assumption.
It is the witching hour in Plainsville, Texas. A soft rain will begin around two A.M. Familiar tastes are the renaissance of my capability.
Many hours later I awake from my bastardization.
The night is young at 3 o'clock. Many spirits are abounding the estate, I realize that the prohibition amendment has made this scotch taste delectable. It's the right taste in the lower chambers of my throat and chest. My grandfather clock ticks and there's a painted mural that reminds me of the time of day that continues; the moon spirits whisper of a semi-god who is only one week passed.
This feels touching to my sleep, and touching to my weeping. Because I know that there's still enough time to wish for something better than better. The wish for fifteen more wishes from the genie inside my mind. Thoughts are granted and well.
My body still lays face up against the bed. The bubbled ceiling forms shapes I enjoy, like the touch of dragons in a western hemisphere. A kimono is burning under the baking sun in east Texas. East destroys west. The west realizes that it already was conforming to the east the whole time.
Family values are a burning tree.
Is it the "you" in you, or the "me" in me?
Sandman comes and creeps and I feel the grains underneath my eyes. It stings, but the negativity feels right enough to awake me.
The sun rises and you're waking up wrong.
You feel a little underprivileged.
That's how the sea of noir feels against your naked skin. Damned voices are your ancestors talking aloud.
Maybe then the relief will come.
Author's Notes: I apologize for this one folks.