We stand mute

against the screaming crowd

Voices becoming ever louder

We grow deaf to it

Ignoring the rising tide

Going on with our lives

Pretending this can't be

We are numb to it

Watch as they plea

As they are beat mercilessly

Turn and walk away

We can taste it

On our bittered tongue

As we swallow these vile pills

Waiting

For our turn

to be the screaming ones

His fathers last words, he’d never forget; making him stronger each day and yet,

he was surrounded, engulfed by the wave, of corruption mocking him and his fathers grave in a remorseless display, an immoral masquerade; this version of freedom, of justice.

He untied his law book before the house; this leather bound cutlass, and began to call out -

“Apathy keeps bellies and minds empty, we are stripped bare by the curse of the plenty...”

By Paul David B

A love so awkward,

It was said not to last,

She mostly green,

And he with a past.

She was quite fair,

With a bendable grace,

This Boxman had edges,

And a very square face.

If the earth laughs in flowers,

The joke was perfection,

Yet the Boxman believed,

He would be the exception.

So he traveled on still,

And uphill to find,

That beneath the same light,

They were two of a kind.

When she bowed down,

To greet him,

He called her his Mrs.,

She called him Honey,

Blowing Dandelion kisses.

And when he would shape,

Into Origami style wedges,

She lithely teased him,

Tickling his edges.

All afternoon they went on,

In this way,

The smile on his face,

To the swoon of her sway...

But when the dusk came,

And the night came to hover,

The Boxman - he picked her -

Then covered his lover.

"My box will protect you,

Tomorrow we'll play,"

But with the sunrise,

She had withered away.

We have only this day,

To bask in the sun,

Tomorrow's not promised,

What today has begun.

Congratulations! You're here!

But it's a difficult time to write and the hunt is still on, retracing a lost sacred code whilst trying to escape from the sameness of the well travelled road.

Culture and class are becoming binary; zeros and ones, principles; arbitrary, oppression between a rock and hard place; mandatory - for zeros at least - stretched paper thin over pillars and posts of soulless pursuits and disappointing role models. This is an intellectual graveyard.

The question I find, for everyone, zeros AND ones of our fragmented house shouldn't be: Why do you support new writers? The question should be: Can we afford NOT to invest in the thinkers that will become writers?

I liken the tools of writing to carpentry tools because they sometimes need sharpening, restoring like those on a workbench. If you want to write, need a morale boost or a bit of support then the community of 'Prose.' can help - other times you need books.

Our interpersonal tools, when used effectively can help us shed our differences and prejudices as we come together on the worlds stage to build a house, call it a home and live in it.

Support new writers!

I wonder what the father of my father of my father of my father - dating back 1,000, 10,000, 100,000, 1,000,000, 10,000,000, 100,000,000, 1,000,000,000, and 10,000,000,000 years ago, respectively - was doing. It's a rather trippy thought to entertain. Think about evolution, genetics, DNA, reproduction. In a certain sense, "you" have always existed, through all your past "fathers" and "mothers," through all past plays of nature.

Words unsaid and

Thoughts not yet realised.

Sounds unheard and

Ideas not yet designed.

Images unpainted and

Crafts not yet mastered.

All are unclaimed gifts of

A yet richer present time.

By Paul David B