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When the Final Wind Marks Us


Mankind must call upon bravery and conquer his ache for control. He is obliged to take the hair from the beards of all of his prophets and weave them as one within the wrathful garment of his god. He must take each flag on earth and knit them together… and with the final flame of his ego set his housecoat ablaze, for as true as the telling winds have engraved all living things, mankind’s story must be rewritten upon his failing storm.

In the garden of man’s war, upon his throne of mirrors, he has held sword and scepter against his brother and sister and miserably woven the hour of darkness upon his sun. Atop the breathing plains he has taken life from the living and exalted the dead. Within the temples of his wretchedness he has generously bowed to spineless rulers and smiled upon stolen pleasure whilst his mouth fell prey to the thievery of hunger. His frightened gaze into chasms of manifest doom shrouded in the cloth of his waking has curved his seeing sky and bent the tongue of his earth back into the barren clay. Beneath this emptiness coils a two legged serpent rising to greet the moon, this wretched and drawn pace hasn’t the will to breathe a new day, the strength to touch the lips in rain or fill the breast with milk, yet it holds the power to end all suffering.


© 2010 by mark prime

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