Prose poetry. 50 words. No rules.

 

 

Hours walk the long minutes to sunset, dragged from night's slow rest by the irresistible claws of sunlight. A day is pulled beneath the eye of god, to be inspected, pored over, and then, ultimately, cast aside, dropped into the dark ocean to sink to the seabed of the past.

 

Where in the past was born the beauty of a sunset? who first saw the sky as painted pink? In the eye of the beholder it is held, but whom so beheld and when? Was there a being, long gone, who named the rose thus, not by any other name?

 

Lest we forget, let the pages tell the story. Let there be words uncountable in myriad languages, let there be days of song and nights of long tales. Of dragons and widows and the trials of being. Let there be new words till the end of time, lest we forget.

 

The white of death, maybe the stricken face of a corpse murdered. Or a snowfield overswept by the grim clouds of winter. White of moonlight, caught in the eye of a loved one, the trapped reflected fire of a distant sun. White is the colour of the page before ink.

 

A hole in the world's fabric, a moving space, drifting from a nowhere to somewhere unknown. Take back the gift, throw away the cards, here is not a place to live, here is a deserted back yard. Walk and fall, stand and fight, always the same, never wrong, never right.

 

All there is or there once was, Alexander, Socrates, the unknown people past. All there was has gone now, lost to the grasping hands of the present. Such hasty fingers does history have, that it lets slip many a gift and in bad memory, loses all but a few names.

 

 

I was once told poetry is about two things. Love and death. If this is true, which I don't think it is, then there is no room in poetry for reason. Plato is redundant. Both death and love are winds from another world, endured not tamed, felt but not understood.

 

Not to be out-done by the larger man, he ran as fast as he could, fearing nothing more keenly than the prickle of shame. He was soon beyond the barrier, and from behind he heard the snarls. Run, he thought, run hard. Run he did, and shame prowled away unsatisfied.

 

Born at night and die everyone morning. Vampire existence, born not of death but rather a desire for a new life. A better half long life, short yet bright, and always reborn. The reincarnation of happiness, an eternity repeating. I am born at night, the blood of belief I drink.

 

A sentence is a strange thing, much like the distance travelled by a snake under the hot sun it twists, this way, that, until at length it slides with silken silence into the mind of the reader, maybe like the snake causing thoughts to leap in fear into the light.

 

Faces walk past me I see them there looking at me with those eyes which have never seen nor would ever see the lands I have seen in my dreams they are sad not knowing the dance of the faerie not hearing the song of dawn in the mornings voice

 

I am the doom giver. I do not live, death coming forever. A is the name given. A, in how many skies secret weapons awaiting? A is too fast, quick, sudden. I am the doom maker, deadly machine.