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Pearl Trade · 09-17-2010, 12:34 PM

The Man

“Each of us bares his own hell.” – Virgil

The Man travels alone. This world has left him without counsel or friendship. Living and non-living beings keep their distance from him, not even an insect would dream of flying in his atmosphere. Light does not shine on him. He is an alien to his own kind. The Man is forever and always by himself.

The Man walks under the sun’s flaming shadow. He walks and walks until the veins in his feet are open and the crimson liquid flows, caking his soles with slime and stain. His feet are in fragments and flattened under the heavy burden of his murderous negativity. The Man walks through this hellacious abyss with no destination, leaving behind no trail or sign of life.

The Man had dreams of fortune, but now they are shattered like a sharp rock through glass. When He sleeps and shuts his heavy eyes, He sees black. Not a calm, smooth black, but a hateful black. A black that rapes and kills, maims and tortures. A black that strikes at his callused soul. This black is cold and uncaring, no different than a winter storm chafing his sunken face. The Man knows this black will never abandon his crestfallen spirit.

The Man sees red when he wakes. This red shocks and paralyzes him. He can feel the red crashing through his veins, it wants to escape. This red is pure, like a blinding flash of lightning and the deafening clap of thunder soon after. The red causes him to rip his hair out, claw at his skin, and smash his skull. The red holds his spineless body above the surface during the day and forces him under in the night. The Man cannot change the red.

The Man does not speak, his voice was torn away long ago. He mouths lies to himself constantly, lies are all he believes. He lies only to the inanimate and to his own deceiving ears. He thinks He hears hate coming from deep within, but He only hears the wind and the shaking trees confirm this suspicion. He cannot hate himself, the world is his master. He tries in vain to yell and scream, but this leaves him with a slashed throat and bleeding lips. The Man makes no noise, no commotion, no cry.

The Man starts to run, his dash no less revolting and humiliating than a mutilated animal lying on a doorstep. The uncompromising earth shreds his legs, assaulting him with a new affliction not known before. He runs and runs, slow strides against an unforgiving maelstrom. His legs gradually turn into solid ground, molding with the malicious earth. He crawls on his hands and knees, a pitiful struggle for progress. Where He touches land, He becomes land. His body, his legs, his arms, his mind, his everything is solid ground. The Man remains alone, He is forever and always by himself.

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Any criticism, help, or compliments are greatly appreciated.

09-17-2010, 12:34 PM	#1 (permalink)
Pearl Trade Addict Location: Houston, Texas	The Man The Man “Each of us bares his own hell.” – Virgil The Man travels alone. This world has left him without counsel or friendship. Living and non-living beings keep their distance from him, not even an insect would dream of flying in his atmosphere. Light does not shine on him. He is an alien to his own kind. The Man is forever and always by himself. The Man walks under the sun’s flaming shadow. He walks and walks until the veins in his feet are open and the crimson liquid flows, caking his soles with slime and stain. His feet are in fragments and flattened under the heavy burden of his murderous negativity. The Man walks through this hellacious abyss with no destination, leaving behind no trail or sign of life. The Man had dreams of fortune, but now they are shattered like a sharp rock through glass. When He sleeps and shuts his heavy eyes, He sees black. Not a calm, smooth black, but a hateful black. A black that rapes and kills, maims and tortures. A black that strikes at his callused soul. This black is cold and uncaring, no different than a winter storm chafing his sunken face. The Man knows this black will never abandon his crestfallen spirit. The Man sees red when he wakes. This red shocks and paralyzes him. He can feel the red crashing through his veins, it wants to escape. This red is pure, like a blinding flash of lightning and the deafening clap of thunder soon after. The red causes him to rip his hair out, claw at his skin, and smash his skull. The red holds his spineless body above the surface during the day and forces him under in the night. The Man cannot change the red. The Man does not speak, his voice was torn away long ago. He mouths lies to himself constantly, lies are all he believes. He lies only to the inanimate and to his own deceiving ears. He thinks He hears hate coming from deep within, but He only hears the wind and the shaking trees confirm this suspicion. He cannot hate himself, the world is his master. He tries in vain to yell and scream, but this leaves him with a slashed throat and bleeding lips. The Man makes no noise, no commotion, no cry. The Man starts to run, his dash no less revolting and humiliating than a mutilated animal lying on a doorstep. The uncompromising earth shreds his legs, assaulting him with a new affliction not known before. He runs and runs, slow strides against an unforgiving maelstrom. His legs gradually turn into solid ground, molding with the malicious earth. He crawls on his hands and knees, a pitiful struggle for progress. Where He touches land, He becomes land. His body, his legs, his arms, his mind, his everything is solid ground. The Man remains alone, He is forever and always by himself. ---------------------------------------- Any criticism, help, or compliments are greatly appreciated. __________________ Our revenge will be the laughter of our children. Give me convenience or give me death!