Wednesday, May 20, 2015

prose poem 12 | explode into the void

Broken dreams and deadweight of potential wither like old fruit on the vine.

The dream was held tight, too perfect to move. It rotted through, held still across cormorous time.

Nothing netted nothing. Multiples of zeros could yield not a tittle more.

Hoping and holding will slay hope’s hostage. Dreaming and wishing do murder the dream.

Ahead, seeming sloughs away; movement debrides gangrenous gore. Failing falls forward: bleeding, triumphant.

Explode into the void. Shed empty skin. Bloody footprints to blaze new trails.

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