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Mini Prosings


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Mini prosings:

An Eyeland

The cyclopean evening overarched where I lay, matching eye for eyes. I washed with navy water and felt cleaner.

      It was dark; something whispered. The trees on my jutting mind gyrated in a forlorn waltz under a canopy of christianity.

      Branches ruffled my hair and a sea of green fury tugged. It was dark in those recesses and a little way off there lay a home, emblazoned firmly (Home Sweet Home.) Of gaudy structure, half lay enveloped by abyss (teeter-totter on a brink.) It was dangerous there, since dark matched dark.

      I remember not my approach, but my frantic knocking met no reply.


      The sun emitted a stifled yawn upon the landscape. Bright, streaming eyes awoke onto a new dawn - one of many the sun had watched during the early days of the world. It was peaceful and boring here, with the trees gently swaying; with the flowers basking in Sun's vision; with the clouds treacling past with smug expressions.

      The blue sky poured over the horizon as if the world were on a gentle incline. That incline seemed much sharper further on, where, just several centuries away, the world's edge darkened onto another existence which was inescapably the same.

      Wrecked machines warred on parched soil, clashing and thrashing, covered with blood and with oil. Ripped chords and pipes flew wildly, just as ivy on the heads of wildly dancing bacchantes in older times. A throaty mist hung maliciously in the close air. That same atmosphere frizzled and rushed for escape as bolts of searing light tore through it.

      And yet there is a further, where there is but darkness and smatterings of gore-splattered history. Yes, then, millennia ahead, that dark fog about life will swirl. The wind of change will engulf it. It will be only temporary, but then what is not? From ashes shall rise gentle land in ocean blue. For the fate of destruction truly is the joy of rebirth.

Contraversa in Heaven

      And as reckless sleep curteiled the stars, I watched the wind smash trees upon your eyelids. It was too late.

      That night's voyage was wreckless and the cool beast lapped at our oars. You asked me why heaven's orchestra would not shine -- why the candle's searching light finds shade. The world beat my chest as I had felt at birth. Breath swelled and fell as the sky blew into me, living in me, making me.

      Somewhere on the shore I though I glimpsed Prometheus dance by. The water's ebb on our strokes touched my lips.

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