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You are important
Why are you sad my dear?
Don't you see?
This universe;
whose beginning we know not;
and whose end we can't see;
created you.
You originated from this vastness.
Every cell within you,
filled with Gods divine energy.
You are limitless my love.
Your pulse is the heartbeat of this universe.
You were created to be alive,
To breath in sync with those around you.
Your existence was divinely orchestrated.
The life force energy that fills the cosmos,
Exists within you.
Radiate it my love.
Show the world.
I am the universe.
My life has a purpose.
There is meaning to my existence
I am in servitude
You see.
Everyone who exists
Was created from that life force
We're all connected dear
We create an ecosystem
Our breaths are all in sync
To keep this earth full of life
You are important
Don't ever forget it
You are important.
Sharpness of Sandstone
Sand. The pinnacle on which we establish
the fullness of our measure, suspended,
is nothing more than uncrystallized glass
and we build, momentum, burnt, of
excess heat, from plaintive need, to see
the reflection of our limitation, mental,
as dullness of unsharpened metal, and
the self-condemnation, of which we are
Guilty
in the end, our becoming,
building as if we were stone, and hatchet
we don't fly in, like birds, shattered, no
we love our windows, as favored seats and
preen ourselves before the confines, of
our mirrors, having learned the shadows
and telltale highlights, yes, we profess that
sand is built on sand, and stone is
every bit just that and nothing more,
in the quake, Earth and pebble, both,
are space debris, and we polish, till sore;
Satisfied, that we have, gracefully, fallen.
Time Sand
"Nothing is built on stone"
It is a concept.
A perception of sorts, where we perceive this idea of a place where we stand upon a platform of stand where if we dwindle long enough, it might become a paved road beneath our feet.
Tromping through places where feet press into watered grounds,
you might hear your feet sluck as you try to trudge forward,
sinking further into sands that looked stable enough to hold us.
Here it is for certain that I must tell you that no platform is built upon brick, stone, or any other form of concrete material.
We must depress out growing sentiment that we can pave the path before us.
Build the bridge from stone to stone, and use the wood in order to traverse between it.
That is what they tell you in your youth, but that is the lie that is to be sold.
That is the lie in which you might become obligated to an expectation that would drive you to anxiety, desperate to rebuild any crumbling stone platform sitting on sinking sand.
Splitting on loose granules that give no rigidity to the place you aim to build your foundation.
For who are you but one in many, building your dreams and hopes upon a platform believed to be hardy.
Building up with your twig-like wood on a rickety scaffolding set to fall when your neighbor might plow through you.
Yes, toil.
Toil away.
You are one of many.
Another who "must build as if the sand were stone" and that anything born from that might become your home.
August 2024 Drabble Winner
The winner of August 2024 Drabble Challenge, "First day of School," is a piece submitted by toddbeller: https://www.theprose.com/post/828200.
This piece captured the nostalgia of when I moved schools. I was in one system for second grade, and then a completely new one for third. I vividly remember befriending strangers in both places the way that only young children can.
Death’s Lottery Spins Fate
Death’s lottery spins fate
Through glassy eyed celadon corridors,
Halved to separate
The obsolete from lazarists.
Wheelchair throned hospital cadaver
Slave to anesthetic delirium,
Hatching dreams stale and eggless
On this anniversary of mother’s milkless feeding.
Revelatory,
Yet too far lodged in the throat
To disengage.
Walled to charmless beige
And posterised spill of lazing moon
Ruptured sarcomas
Needle a ruby rash massacre,
Bedsheets a quilted black mass.
Morphine teeth
Sink phantasmagoric oblivion
Into starched canvas flesh,
A watery itch detour
From armouries of howling nerves.
Ammonia halls
Crowned mothball pall
Shrink back
As charity’s shattered vials
Violently perfume beastly glum.
I shall fear no snake pit exhibition,
Saith Lazarus.