Wandering through a forgotten corner, an eye for the dissolving mass of newspaper.
What once yielded heralding words of development now herald detritus, fungus, poison.
The cement lines shoulder societal absence. No choice. A birthright of toil, set to decay.
That observant eye travels forward. Legs of sinew, bound in flesh, naught for tarrying.
His pupil details the thickening mud of word and water, and yet it travels off.
Couldn't see it before, just beyond the peripheral lays a dormant energy.
It shapes itself in a perfect cube. A beacon, a relic of the past? A sign of a god?
It quakes and curls having been spotted. That observant eye recoils.
He looks away, but alas he is in a puddle. He is like the newspaper.
Traveling, rolling, folding, carried in the wind.
Until fate yields the binding agent, the puddle of rain or of man.
To be stepped on, to be forgotten, to be shuttled into the grave of pavement and brick.
That observant eye takes this all in, hugs close to its socket home, and is swallowed.
That energy took form, the world could not bear it.
But most of all those legs of sinew, that eye of observing, it could not manage.
It could not comprehend.
He could not bear.
He tore out his heart and held it up to the sky.
"Is this what you want?" he spits out breathlessly.
No time for lungs.
No time for life.
Gravity crumbles him.
Just another piece of paper for the maw.
Just another hopeful set of words unheeded.
Another victim to the dormant unknown. To the void of that unseen horizon.
YOU ARE READING
Lines
RandomA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
