#prose.from.a.rose.: - TWENTY-THREE
I look up at the crescent moon, whose smile was stolen by the very baby that sleeps on its bend that points to the very heavens.
The baby is fast asleep, lost in a sweet reverie, sweeter than any drop of honey Earth could offer its ageing tongue. The texture of the honey its mind imagines sticker than any honey on Earth, like a golden syrup that sticks tightly onto its snow-coloured beard.
The baby has a beard that drops onto the Earth like snow. It's beard longer than mine will ever be. It is tired and resting.
Now I wonder the baby's age. Is he a baby, toddler, boy, a teenager, a man?
"A wizard" whispers a shooting star - that miserable thing's last word before it burst in the sky in its final form like an ephemeral firework, screaming out to the heavens and to Hell, yelling "look at me! Give me sufficient attention! I am on my death bed and my deathly sky!"
I dance around, spiralling quicker than a rat running up the staircase of a moonlight-beaming lighthouse, clapping, applauding, cheering, "Yes! Oh you dying star! Your colours were like a luminous rainbow and your words like the cherry on my cake! Oh good! What a performance!"
And then I am struck with the index finger of the burning sun, snapping me awake.
Stunned, I leapt forth like a baby kangaroo to its mother - seeing its reflection in a crooked mirror, lightning-shaped like some kind of sick joke from that fictional idiot Zeus.
I realise now, who the baby with a beard was. It was I, a twenty year old, young yet old soul, my face hairless and youthful but my heart aged like the wine I could never taste shining like glossy cherry- sequin-studded and attention-seeking.
Oh, how tired I have become of this life I choose to live, but how differently and better I live it. Running through the alleyways in my head throwing confetti into everyone's eyes instead of the stinging lemon they're used to.
"Feast your eyes on colour not the acidity of a yellow lime!"
How ecstatic I am to realise in a short-lived epiphany, younger than any shooting star. - I have realised that I am the baby with the beard! The wizard whose magic is a big and bright nothing!
Oh dead firework and deader shooting star! Look at me the way you would look at the sun if at all! If ever! If in wonder! If in spite!
Oh God, I am bright, I am bright!
And I prove myself to not even dust.
YOU ARE READING
Prose from a Rose
PoesíaMy first collection of prose. Though I have written prose before, I have finally decided to publish some pieces of my prose here on wattpad. I usually write poetry and already have three poetry books here on Wattpad. The first being 'Poetry by Eclip...
