Thursday, August 23, 2007

The Creation in Prose

The Universe melts. And a drop of molten heat falls on me. Sparkling dew on Golden skin. And somewhere deep deep down a yelp of fire engulfs the spirit. And the soul waits. Waits alone. In solitary confinement within the skin.


The clock ticks by. Ticks by the edges of patience. And somewhere in between all the pain, passion trickles down. Titillates the warm skin with a light coolness. A new paradox in creation. And the Universe bends down in reverence. The Sun performs the ritual of destruction. Green with jealousy and red with envy. The Stars look on in awe. Twinkling their eyes in unison. The Winds get rough and the sands blow into the face. To cover the tingling Skin with sand and salt. Salt from the Heart of the deep blue Ocean. Blue like the middle of a wanton Night. Nights I would throw caution to the abandoned winds. Bluer than the eyes of Eve. And a lot more Sinful. Dark and aphotic. Where Light rebels against the cobwebs of Insecurity to exist. Exist in a world of Reverie.

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