Monday, August 15, 2011

prose before hoes

man away, this man is always away. up in air, out of snare. the tangent intelligent. the arc of a circumference that needs a π/pi to be formulated. the approximate equal of 3.1415.

he is a man consumed. a complex perplexed and presumed. delicate existence, discordant persistence. convulsing between nature or nurture. a rift between the raft on the rafter and on the veranda of the heart, from here on and thereafter.

the mise-en-scène, a desolate cascade etched itself on this landscape farewell bade. bit by bit, up to the hill until the hilt. a tender taste of crème de la crème à la bitter morose and a pinch of ennui impose. slowly fleeting in the merest splinter of feeling. this man and his iron, a will forged and a tailor-made siphon. the tempest bereft of miranda and up in turmoil. the hottest of all colds, and the winter that his heart holds. a weather under the whether, or not, this man's heart could be saved.

gasp upon grasps of steel and freewill, did this man endure. emotive senses in pure. to the brim, at the height of ascending meaning. where he was left, by thieves equipped for heart theft. the question lays under vivid section of a vivisection. like scalpels under the jugular, stitched intricately over lapels. there so, he lies, shattered and battered. even broken alive, even by means held contrived. a contradictory ponder of the meanderings of life.

fallacy now, has a new servant in this man. who could be, no man at all. fate and her cohorts, have left this man stripped of his being. to the single organic sentient, so abstrused like cryptic enigma. to not be understood; forever as ever would.

this man has been striked upon, as a vagabond, a trail of trivialities between pursuits and hirsuit that follows suit. an absolute, vox populi of traverse verse of vice so venal and violent virulent. whom stench of a long-gone vexation, laid vexed in a vast vein vacuum vacant vacuous vacating vestige space. a space of faults, broken promises, failed chances and trails of no avail.

hope falters, as love renders. the only tender, this man would hear. his ears would ring of a thousand sings on a string. the balance where he meets, the fair and rare soul complete.


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