literature

Story (in three parts)

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Literature Text

prologue-  

The funny thing I've always seen about prologues,
is that they are supposed to set the scene..
bring you into the story you are reading.

But what if that story is a poem?
a written vent of raw emotions and open wounds waiting to be closed?

or a drawing,
a mixture of weeping slashes of graphite jumbled together onto a piece of blank space-
space that was pointless until the moment in consciousness you decided to designate a purpose to it,
rending that piece of the abyss we are part of until those lines of pure emotion can never be replaced.

Story-

the place where you begin the journey,
where the characters come to life in a disturbingly colloquial manner.

Where you allow your voice to shine through the small black symbols muddled together in ways we understand, 
where the reader glimpses your pain,
your ardor to get through the words,
to have the words form lines,
then lines to stanzas,
to pages and pages of rude passion screaming out for someone to hear you, 
will someone please hear you?

the element glimpsed through the mess of lines and smears forming a image,
that in itself tells a story..
each line worth a thousand words...
which begs the question of how many words a picture is actually worth.


credits-


the final bows,
the heart-wrenching deaths of loved characters,
the tears of the people you had become so familiar with
becoming solidified daggers into your heart-
twisting,
barbed blade
not ink but not quite human.

final call,
last stirring emotion searing into your mind,
left to be repeated,
a unearthly mantra through your fevered imagination..
sparks of the memories of that magical feeling left over
half-burned into the part of your being that is still alive,
half frozen into the part that is dead.

the last sweeps of the paint brush,
breathing life and color into your masterpiece, 
your sweat and tears mingling in the pigment of your destiny.

End-

Just as it sounds,
the last lingering feelings of pain and happiness that drove you through the story,
the left over rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins,
the final words of the invisible soap opera echo through the now-empty streets of your humanity.

The tapered closing leaving you to wonder about reality,
forcing you to choose between creation and destruction of what little is left of your soul.

the gentle sweeping of the graphite and lead pencil,
the indigo strokes of the feathery brass forever commemorating,
and tying you to the picture, 
that emotion frozen in time forever.
© 2014 - 2024 Sandpiper28
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