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by mrs. johnson 05/19/2003, 12:24am PDT |
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Hark, a maiden’s call, a fervent shore. Each moment the passage of the previous moment is catalogued by the heavenly mandate and left for the dead. Corpses of minutes litter the historical blood ocean of the mortals and leave traces of brilliant light. Flashes of truth manage to pierce the every day bewilderment of the Greatest Race, but are instantly silenced amongst the cries of pain. Infinite silence is to come after all the sonic productions have ceased, but they stretch like an omni-directional halo into the farthest reaches of vast mass drenched pools. A single perfect drop distances itself from the rusted collection of a rugged metallic covering. It drops, easily passing division in time, a feat which the sentient mind cannot even attempt, and falls onto an undeserving head. A blameless child whose fingers are caked with mud and sugar, and who is picking up momentum as he is being carried towards his proper place as the Hero of Sadness.
His steps are sure and pure; his hair is blonde and tangled. His name is lost and unimportant; he tramples the sodden pavement of his race. Epic glory awaits him, and he hears swelling strings. The world pauses around him and he walks away from his frozen caretakers towards the sky, not realizing that he can never reach it. His frail neck stretches more and more as he tries to leave the ground, but he cannot. Birds, begin to fall from the sky, as there is nothing to propel them farther, men begin to suffocate as their lungs are frozen. Death begins to spread over the world, but leaves the child be. In seconds, all but him are dead. His eyes are still upon the blue heaven as he runs towards it.
Matter continues to move, and with much time the planet is once more recreated. Stop. Ominous and foreboding are the relations that go on below the clouds. Inventions of grace and comfort and beauty, inventions of pain and death. Stop. Somewhere amidst all these inventions lives a chance of full life. Something so subtle as to be felt without identification or understanding. Pure and final, unaltered as an expression of life, with wings of angels. Within each written words it is found, and within each dream it is realized. It is created by that which life has created, and destroyed by the movements of that life.
the mrs. |
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