Monday, December 29, 2014

prose poem 3 - emptiness and echoes

It’s not very well known, but hope is something of a glue. It binds one to his fellows. It connects one to her surroundings.

So what then happens without hope, without care, in the absence connective strands?

Beyond despair and desire, you are free to find the cracks in this façade that we think so real, so important. You are free to fall away to other places.

That filthy thing you see on the streets, with its matted hair and tiny bean teeth. That thing that once was a man, when it babbles about reptilian queens and psychic signals in its teeth, this may not simply be the fevered dream of a diseased brain. It may be quite true. It may have seen vistas beyond your imagining.

That filthy needle in its arm may blast it forward to strange new places.

And, on that planet, amongst those alien stars, it may once more become he or she. It may find itself a person again. It may walk and smile and want and grow. It may learn and change and rise to greatness. Maybe.

Or, it may be another broken thing desperately seeking numb oblivion to deliver to its veins.

Either way, be kind. Kindness costs us little. The smallest moments still echo through eternity.

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