I consider man an experiment, part of one, at the least.
We either strive to live with goodness imprinted on our faces
or we join the noise of man to make a frown of it.
~
(This is American Diabetes Month)
There is our disquieted affection, anemic love of muted hearts, a ditch filled with bones, bleached and broken, like a bomb shelter of innocence, as if suffering had weapons or an award-winning plastic surgeon. There is loathing, arid teeth in search of flesh, a mad beast in a soundproof room, a noiseless hum, man without his reason, stumbling along the path, his demise welling up inside him with grief and regret.
Our sickly masks sit heavy, bombs set to ignite in succession with their dreary brightness. A tick tock of wary packages left behind, marking off our unpleasant faces, facades floating along the ailing shoreline, sailing atop the oil-ridden shells of our fluid-like thoughts emanating from low, anemic love in the midst of failure.
Noise, the lover of woe, like a smile without lips, a jig without feet, is here to absorb our fervent pleas, our wish without delight, a jam-packed gloom and headless consideration,
lost, but in the midst of friends, anguished teeth rattling like a mountain.
The truth floats upon our stream, happily hovering, paddling the frothy surface, probing what drifts downstream; an angler casting for certainty, with the hook of sureness trawling for truth.
Lies are like the fish that got away from the net, that suffocates goodness and gives noise mouth to mouth, breathes time back into death’s faint lungs and shares our meals of blood red remains. These floating captains of a weakened ship, we’ll lend our hands to push them under.
© 2010 by mark prime
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