Behold Mt.
Creativity: a
pile of corpses
stacked in a fissure
rotting flesh succumbs
to desperate less-rotten flesh
wriggling and squirming above
straining for a glimpse of the sun, of glory
Every failure a dream
a crumpled effort long since
drained of meaning dulled by time
abandoned to silent decay skeletons still pristine
Undisturbed but restless spectres unable to speak their treasured
truths to minds beyond their own, trapped with an unspent wealth
That mountain of death
roots endlessly deep
of words never heard
memories never seen
thrusts forth, at the summit, a
podium for the knighted
Enraptured, we embrace this beauty
as if pure and whole
conveniently forgetting the
foundation of its
brilliance:
death
and now this piece will take its rightful place at the base
There is so much I will never see - that nobody will ever see. More is being generated than can be consumed, especially as the world shines the spotlight on the successful, fuelling exponential growth of the tallest flowers while leaving an immeasurable ecosystem of beings who exist only to become fertiliser for the healthy, growing, deserving starchasers.
The sad reality of creation is thus: the more that dares to live, the more that is doomed to die.