I do not

Talk in colors as often now. 

It has been said to me

That my poetry is of lone attire,

Donned in black

And paired

With a sash of gold

Of only my own vision. 

If I am the only one

That can see such silk, 

Then it is my own color 

That I speak for myself. 

Good morning, Prosers,

It’s week forty-nine of the Prose Challenge of the Week! Last week saw you all writing your mini-manifestos. We had shed-loads of superb entries to read, so thank you everyone.

Before we find out which one of you takes the $100 prize, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Prose Challenge of the Week #49: Use this sentence to inspire your piece of poetry or prose: We are all broken. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100 and will be placed first on our Spotlight page and the runner-up will receive 1000 coins. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Get writing, now.

From this point forward, the winner will not only receive $100, but they will also have their post Spotlighted. This means that anyone who visits theprose.com and isn’t logged in, will see your post first, before anyone else. So, make your words count. Not only this but we are now offering the person who comes in second place 1000 coins to buy some beautiful word porn! How about that for incentive to enter?

Back to the winner of week forty-eight. We have read all of your entries and thoroughly enjoyed every single one. There can only be one winner, however, and after much deliberation that winner is @PhynneBelle with their piece “an aspiration.” Congratulations to you, we will be in touch shortly to arrange transfer of your winnings!

That’s all for this week, here’s to a week filled with all things Prose!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

She left

Not because she's moderately politically right and I'm profoundly left

But because I didn't sweep the leaves from the front porch

And left a brand new gallon of milk out spoiling (The second time this week!)

My memories of us are wilting like the leaves of a wintering oak

Leaving riots of red and yellow leaves until the tree has nothing left

I frantically fill the leafs of a book with remnants of the leaves

Plucked methodically from wiry branch until arms heavy of memories leaving by wind

Memories still crunchy underfoot like the swirling leaves of August

Her leaving left me leafing through the leaflets proclaiming our marriage

I think back to a simple time, a childhood memory, making wax leaves

Melted crayons and a leaf from a tree, I used too many colors

Mixed together to leave a fermented brown color with flecks of red and orange

"We'll leave that one out" said teacher, pointing to mine

But like my marriage I was contented that the wax leaf left was so close to real.

Hardworking brown of a life lived gently and a few sparkles of color left

Showing the leaf left behind tells a story of leaving its legacy fulfilled

To nourish the tree, at least that's what the leaflets on leaves tell me.

But leafing through the pages, both paper leaves and digital bitleaf

I've left one leaf blank, still clinging to the tree in the cold winter months

Long after the leaves are raked, mulched, and left in a hotbox

The leaf left un-spent and leaving the leaves of the collection of leaflets un-finished

Is the one where I take my leave; and say

Goodbye

https://soundcloud.com/douglas-reid-483827393/leaves