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A Hushed and Soothing Reverie


Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world and sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich. Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds and unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips.

O! That this world could make use of silence or a hushed and soothing reverie from the heavy chains knotted around our breath. The tongues are corroded over with idols and liars and hordes of impish drones and toadies and criminals, a fine mess we’ve made of it! A fine mess we’re into now, a world in disarray.

And someone’s going to stop breathing tonight. A father’s going to cry, kill or pray as someone else will sleep far away from his grief. Sleep roundly without sorrow. The moving sand and running streets and flying steel pilfering the radiance will send a messenger, a virgin warrior, with tidings of community and expectation, only to return with news of a lifeless planet with lifeless inhabitants; dull and jaded. Another more seasoned warrior will then be sent with reports and bags of gold, only to return with news of an insensible planet with insensible and terrified patrons. Then it will be time to send the general, a gallant, fearless stag of impeccable servitude armed only with the kings dangling gaze hard upon his back. The news is good. The planet breathes. The previous, now lifeless dispatches were two-faced traitors…

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world and sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich. Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds and unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips, a command was given to cease all opposition and to run crying for shelter.

Come! Warble your dissent! Whimper in anger! Snivel in disbelief and comfortless drivel until the soil trembles with your quaking of our liberty that is the world’s torment, for the virgin and the seasoned have been silenced and all that remains is monstrous! O! If the rivers could but sing of this time they’d flood the world in sorrowful verse...



© 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime


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