Gold bronze

prologue

They say the universe was born first, the explosions and the collision of the inconsistent elements, spiked with just enough radioactive reactions to make it burn the human flesh for centuries.

Unrealistic formations and brutal kings with uncontrollable power govern the same physics as that of worldly existantial hypothesis.

Generations flow, they talk about the stars, they argue over beliefs and the cutting truth of religions that seperate them: words of bloodless disparity and mortal wounds that seek no said harm in the early morning prayers with bowed heads begging for forgiveness.

Yet we kill; an ode to lunacy that helps us keep sane and makes us human.

But in a million years that the universe has existed, why doesn't anyone talk about the darkness that engulfs it in like a mother protecting the innocence of her young child?

Art is the painted portion of strokes and not the white ?

Billions of beating hearts around the world each of which completely different with thoughts brewing up an unorderly chaos in the minds and the catastrophic similarity they still bear with each other, cannot just be a mere act of chance .

A revelation perhaps that this world does not exist on coincidences.

Princes are taught to fight their father's wars , boys that turn into brutish men. The rich become the royal kings and we lie on the pointed end of their swords.

With changing skies, the princes morph into lovers, an impossible irony with too much of broken shards of glass piercing their youthful wrists, hearts bleeding out of love and a bottle of vodka stuck on their lips.

Amidst these thoughts, the heirs of kings and queens repress the existence of the other halves -the less fortunate- rendered blood on their swords with no aim to live but to exist with power regardless of value, they were lovers once but they lost their sanity fighting a war without weapons.

And then the royals die in this war zone. Blood of the innocent on their hands. The kings of old age by existing to mere cowardice or dying young by wounds and inexperienced blood lost to the princely swords in a shallow attempt to live with bravery.

We disappear into the clutches of nothingness after death, a million thoughts thought of, gone.

The words that never felt the touch of the lips, gone.

The love never confessed to our mothers, gone.

And the egos that existed till the end of time, gone.

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But the question that scars Spencer Bishop is, what are we fighting for?

[a/n] : Do you feel me? What do you think?