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Prose Poetry

Reaching up to heaven discovering a padlock — you cannot come in. Your prison has barred you forever. The key was forged before the key hole was conjured. I don't fit in.

This is the closest to heaven that I'll ever get.

The clouds of fog drowning and choking out the last gasp. Stop.

The universal antithesis of antithetic deities and fallen angels debate as you hunker in the fissure. The warmth and comfort compress and strangle like a corset stitched from a python. 

It's a wormhole — the in-between of light and dark. 

The screams are silent and the tears well deep inside as the bleeding effuses through pours.


Tic Tock — the hands frozen in time going nowhere. Where the past and the future become the present: a nuclear wasteland. Raining deep red stains that last a lifetime on the barren backdrop littered with padlocks. 

Alone and aimless navigation, my compass points to infinity.

Welcome home. 



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