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
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 8:19 PM UTC
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.