Creative Writing

The Final Frontier?


Silent, damaged, lost.
Prone to mistakes.
For want of fickle affections
we fold inward like a tri-folded
map. A map where roads lead

To attempt to unfurl these folded
souls is to leave them laying,
never flat. Never the same.
and permanently creased
with dismal blame.

In a fit of fiery passion we blaze
with the hopelessness of a
dying star.
Mislaid. sputtering.
What we blazed in life is cooled
to subservience upon final hours.

This is where mortality becomes
the chisel that sinks into our world.
With a violent cast it sends each broken
half of an already
damaged sphere skittering across the
blank planes of infinite distance.

Will you settle for these worm holes
of black,
when all over, spiraling galaxies of
dazzling light fill the void?
Faith is the hand that can
so easily smooth the folds.


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