Prose from a Rose

🌹Walk Through Earth, Amble Through Heaven

#prose.from.a.rose.- ONE:

I had suffered from auditory hallucinations,
believing the voice inside my cranium that was birthed through solitary isolation and the reservation of my voice for my consciousness and the deprivation of my sources of joy.

Linking a long silver chain, linking lies links of falsehood, weaving it so that it turned into an extensive trail of wool, thats colour faded away with time, diving itself into the waters of translucency. Eventually, I would lose all recollection of the embryo of truth that had died behind me, far behind me.

My inaction had been unexplainable so I spewed up the darkness from beneath to shield me from the blinding light that my eyes could not even dare to gaze upon, not even for mere seconds.

Amplification on my right ear as my senses were enhanced strangely, while an eye had been dyed in salmon red. Time that I would never have again, now lays beneath me, asleep, in restful death as moments spent and gone.

How I took the benignity I had been surrounded by for granted and had let myself be killed by illogicality, my mind vanquished from every corner of my thickening skull - and they would say, do not hate, do not hate, unknowing of the sable-stained patches on one of my parchments.

I have retreated back to my sanctuary lest I lose myself once more, with the paranoia of perception and the inexcusable self-trickery banished for what only one can hope to be eternity.

Coins of poverty, I have thrown willingly, and lazily, into the hands of the faint whisper-grey shadow that is cast by the laws of physics ahead of me by the will of the light and dark. I fear it may deepen in visibility if I continue to choose to lose.

Bitten glass and falsehood that flew out and to many around me, with the reality a mere lost fabrication of the wretched past that will inevitably rot away in its old, withering age alongside the wrinkles of human skin and the yawns of every moon in existence.

Tired and grey, are the moons. Tired of watching the darkness unfold around them, tired of being the only beacons of light, tired of illuminating the night alone, just wanting to fall, wanting to let the suns behind them, burn the planets away to ash, to burn our chances that we keep treading upon with heavy, weighted shoes of metal, diamond and silver that is more mirky than there at all.

Then I cringe in obscurity, clinging onto normality as an outsider who peeks within. I need charming studs of screaming morganite and weakening emerald forced onto my arms so that they may shine, so that I may remember my worth, and carve them in harshly so that blood may bleed out to teach me strength instead of unnecessary weakness.

Now, I must see how my future is shrinking, and has been shrinking at my own hands. How I have adopted the beak of a crow and worn it like a medallion, the stench of a child exuding my vessel out into the open, carelessly around the beings who each make up a line on the characters page of my life, without apology, and worse, without word.

Maybe I shall launch myself out into the crowds of colour to mingle so that I may never reach such states of mind again, to intertwine with the masses, even if I choose to be a limping square amongst orbs whom roll with presumable ease.

Let me render my corners and slice them away to create sides smooth and a mind refined and renewed, so that I, too, may be able to roll onwards towards the horizon, where the others already live. If I make it not, then so be it, fate, I will accept future's form, even if it be grim or dull, for I have defined it, in my strange nature, with a green so hidden in shade that it may as well be strictly married to the night like a nun is married to God.
I hope I will have the sense to emerge from beneath the leaves above me, as a leaf whom is  embracing amber and the pull of gravity, its voice begging me to finally drop, as my fall has been overdue.

And if I am to be a leaf who will not ever come to fall, then the branch must shake me off to the ground so that I may grow from the dirt like a youthful daisy whose petals resemble the whites of an elderly human's head, to face the sun, even if the sun, through my eyes, will be dim in its light, even if my mind paints a cloud north from my forehead.

I must learn to stargaze, and to master scripture so that the coins that I have thrown into the palms of my shadow are gold, silver and bronze not merely ghosts of dust barely even there at all.

Words must follow action, or action will be met with the words that had been abandoned, that had been meant for action but were never weaved onto action's fuzzy, fluffy, electrifying fabric. And there is no reason at all to willingly waste the colours that leak from your hands on short-lived paths rather than solid ones built by you and many others. Why deny your place in all of this, why throw it away, why accept the dirt when your feet are meant for the concrete that has been coated over it?

One must walk the earth, not simply reside on the earth in an idle fashion like a lazy starfish whom lets waves of water wash over it, wash its colour away, forcing it back to the depths of the ocean rather than the shore that it was meant for.

One cannot amble when one's demise is shrouded in mystery and intended for spontaneous surprise. That is why one must sprint, must run, and must smell the flowers of paradise, letting the imperfect flowers of earth rot and die, like every mortal thing will.

In death, shall we rise, but before then, we must prosper, never fall or rot. So, prick yourself with the pains of reality now, or you may never see the golds of success.

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ద     ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద   𖦊  ʊ
༒    ༒ ༒ ༒  .   .      ༒ .   . ༒
༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒              ༒       ༒
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