Prose Poem
The strings of fate had woven a tragedy. The parallel words collapse into collision. Harmony, an unwitnessed rarity, slips out of reach. Humanity, as always, falls prey to groundless hatred. The devil is in the details, they recite. Maybe, the angel will grace us with her presence, I whisper.
Dangling into motion like lifeless puppets on a string, we let our lives outlive us. I could laugh, I could cry. Nonetheless, the tears will leave my eyes as dry as trickling sand in the desert. It's not an overstatement to declare this a predictable disaster. With the way the world revolves and with the way people remain oblivious to the obvious, denial would be a futile resistance. Acceptance appears equivalent to giving up.
Ever came to the conclusion that the "right answer" may not exist? Perceptions lead us to brilliance or a pitfall of failure. If contemplation ever comforted us, it would certainly be in death. Prized possessions, whether human or abstract, render meaningless when they're buried by another grand achievement. Making the impossible possible apparently proves to be an easier task than anyone could comprehend.
My mind is in a maze, my heart is in a daze and my soul is in a haze. Rhyming my concerns merely softens the blow. Artists romanticise escapism because reality scrutinises imagination. Paper and ink have been my saviours more often than any living being. Betrayal is out of question when your companion is embellished with words you eloquently pour out in indisputable clarity. Exaggeration may be garish, but it's seldom dull. The fruits of life taste better when you've starved yourself to near death.
Appreciation, as I recall, serves no purpose if it's conveniently forgotten. The beauty of ignorance is well sought for. Knowledge stains your naivety. Sacrifice your freedom for the pursuit of worldly desires. Disregard gratitude like a speck of dust lost in the summer breeze. Seek for validation from strangers, hardly making up for reconciliation with family. Choose these alternatives instinctively and beware if someone steals something so addictive, your demons awaken vindictive.
Searching for a conclusion amidst this scattered chaos is a fool's errand. Deriving pleasure from being a spectator is a forbidden fruit. Seething with venomous agony when you helplessly give in to your fate is a universal truth. Jaded ambitions do little to save you from complacency. Embrace the godforsaken spirit and realise your sole purpose. The key to a broken door is to rebuild. Revive.
