Prose Within Us

Old
age
arrived
in search of
where it came from
and, of how and when
its silent voice and violent
tome, summoned the others
each alone and without face
touched, blinded, soul less
reminded, by this passing
and forgotten by, those
souls surviving their
own deciphering
fires of indecision
or deciding; faint and
without description
of no substance or
wisdoms… nothings
calling nothings somethings
each one unfastened, opened
groping, palpitating, perforated
wounded universes of decay
languishing in the void and
in the abyss of this life…
Loosened from the branches
borne of the nonsense and
the complexities of that
heaven which is unseen
and hiding in the shadows
of both night and unconsciousness
abruptly returning within eyes and upon
wings of someone riddled with time's
corrupting inevitabilities, and lesser
blessings of those violent fevers
drunk of the mysteries, broke
and shattered upon that
granular mound of sand, hit
by the raging projectile
and blazing speed of
life so passing by…
we, are each so
infinitesimal
an image
solely rolled
upon the vastness
of both the universe
and the worth of the
prose within US

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