Prose Poetry
Holding On
Fast on to letting go
What did You say, again?
Making deliberate excuses — talking your way out of the head — and the tepid brook waiting for the feet. Having to make way — for the falling leaves dancing their way down aiming for an unblemished landing.
the sole purpose of their existence being to fatefully shatter at your weary feet — while you try to leave your mark somewhere — with the undeniable sentient knowledge that somehow this is all responsible for the shape of the grand Orion in the night sky.
Your varied perspectives getting diffused in a myriad of elated joys — notwithstanding the sated desires. Making your way to raving reviews on nihilism — but succeeding on account of agnosticism — dwelling in on the sordid lapse of memory — forgetting what was said and done — for sake of clarity.
Gloated frontal lobes audaciously pushing the cranium to limits — but you stomach it all down there in the bloated gut with a decent caw — masked — keeping to the protocol.
You walk away gallantly marveling at the universes you have brought into being — taking pride in the picture you can portray — with long strides to make it elaborate. Graceful. Chuckling heartily at the prospect of being the centre of a giant cosmic joke.
Losing the grip on your oxymoronic state of being — steadfast on a mission to abandon all things that define you. Attached so true to detachment. Holding fast on to letting go.
Watching them the sentient beings in the other perspective — holding bodies against beautiful words spoken — trying to save universes — talking in different languages, saying the same things — with much to be accomplished in the living years.
You know you’ve said too much. And not enough.
- Late with the prompt, but on time for Life — I got summoned to be Alone With Everybody by Bukowski — J.D. will surely forgive me now!
