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Old 10-24-2017, 05:11 PM
Ace-Nectar (Offline)
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Join Date: Oct 2017
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The Poet recites:

"No thread...
No bread!
No sunrise for my baby...

"Who knows?" screech the voices from a streaming conscience; howling through the broken windshield of a mind: splashing cold fear onto the Poet's frown.
He finds the gall to carry on.

"Although morose, this is not gross!", he says, foul fingers emphasizing the wholesomeness of four syllables before a pause.
He then ends with a pretentious:

"There are many more things yet to be lost..."

Silence sets. Echoes twinkling out of sight, but the windshield banshees are still at large; scanning deeply the twilight of his wounds. Finding fodder in his words to dig ridicule ever deeper into his hurt.

"Your baby died! Your ba-by, died! She did. Oh yes, she did! She died and died and fucking died!" they chant the crazed lullaby taunt; flaunting their envy, their vanity, their pride.

The Poet stares.
Stares past the jagged edges of his view.
Past scattered segments already way past words.

Segments, scattered: far removed from direct knowledge; just like the womb they lie too deep beneath the surface, like a pregnant tomb.


A thought cannot be expressed and the sirens screech their victory air.


Darkness is next. Split only by revolting lights, revolving on the top of cars and trucks bearing messengers and magistrates like sweepstakes' fools.

Bringing queries about events.
Fetching statements from their vests.

Questions about the wound. Questions put in words.
Ignorant of the sweeping whirlwind of the other world.

The Poet sees the timeless swirl. Sees it for the cycle of some god-forsaken culture of worms. Through the rising fog of ignorance he feels the sinking melody of his verbs.

Ripping out the effervescence that remains, scraping away those last strands of sanity that cling like flaking paint on the ancient, damp walls of structures whose use has long been forgotten, the Poet begins the endless wake.

"No sunrise for my baby, tonight:
Dead and gone and deathly white.
Red hidden in veins that once found delight
Now splattered across the tarmac in full sight."

"No sunrise" chorus the quietening howls.
"No sunrise" they repeat in jest.
"Always sunset!" And they're gone.

No sunrise for my baby tonight, but sunlight tomorrow.
And life.


Prompted to accept the Challenge & write something in this thread.
Stream of consciousness inspired by Lockette , Grace Gabriel and JesseK1213

Lockette's mind-numbing repetition got me thinking in a specific mode while Grace's prose set the tone and JesseK1213's structured plot pointed the way to go on.

Please be brutal in your critique, gentle in your personal dissemination and yourself always.

Last edited by Ace-Nectar; 10-24-2017 at 05:16 PM..
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