it starts with the masses. heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies and from the amalgamate of ruined life rise the silver, brilliant winged filthy sog and bones sludging off their unmatched, magnificent light
like shooting stars they ascend to the enormous white clouds garnered with the span of their great feathers wearing masks of divine neutrality
and we
in the masses
stare so longingly at those divine heavens
some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings- tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar- flatter unsteadily up groping desperately at the clouds with bony, aching fingers only to meet solemn and unforgiving stone
and pushed back, tossed
back
into the masses
and like comets, they rain down
the fall of the inadequate
crashing into the hideously wet festering: into the decay of the mundane and ordinary
and thus the procession commences great silver wings nailed with dignified steel stakes graceful hands and feet mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron
we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary we wail, we scream we cry for the destiny of divinity in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus becomes the great symphony of the decaying and dying bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy we continue to beg and shout and call
the opera of roaring voices:
the crucifixion of the prodigy
as we continue to decay the weathering, spreading and becoming, morphing into something no longer recognizable
slowly we die off each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments in succumbing to mortality the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy until the echo of the last haunted cry-
silences
hence closes
the fall of the inadequate
the crucifixion of the prodigy
and
the decay of the mundane and ordinary
on the destinies of the genius, not-yet-genius, and the ordinary man - and their inevitability.
currently trying to improve my amateur writing, please give constructive feedback if you feel compelled.