by C. Ikpoh

Listen to the whimpering of inequities abundant. The praise for inaudible thoughts highlight all days. Alas, inquired is if it is worse to tempt that which is pure, or that which is perpetually enticed yet has remained unblemished. The coaxing of grace towards the fall enjoyed with a smile. A smile greeted upon arrival though. The reflection of the world present. Who knew the rabbit hole was dug so deep? The universe was born as a hare with spades for feet. Down, down the tumbling goes. Covered in the essence of one's nature. Painted in dirt. Yet, the truth is not believed when said. Behold God's ivory sculpture slathered in the smut of descension. Soiled.

Who are all to the world? Eyes are not what one should believe in. Look away while spoken are the words wished to be heard, for there is where true eyes lie. Memorize them, now gaze upon familiarity. Thus, remains no need for a porcelain mask. Strength. Man. Friend. To be... as the blank remains empty. That memory is alive in one mind only. Save the recitals. Yesterday was purged from the hourglass for a reason. Sand has always been hated but beloved time shall forever be. Liberator. The grains of freedom riddle the facade. Ever so convincing. Nevertheless, the moment for silence is now. Outsiders have arrived. An arms length becomes shoulder width. Welcome to the proximity of repellant, as equidistant as the moon and the sun. Love grows abound. Alas, where was the world? Ah, yes. Look away while spoken to...

Implanted in a nightmare are daydreams of fantasy. Death is not detailed. Only replayed over and over for the optimistically masochistic audience. One person watches their life fade. One witnesses a rebirth. Reincarnations of carnality, exploration, prominence and recognition amassing to an entree of delicious despair. The montage is dreadful and painful. MURDERER! Release the tears from the fountains of their youth! It is a syndication of familiar stories told throughout times. A past of collective damnation. Alas, there is always one more page meant to be eaten alive by avarice. Devour the past of present futures. Digest the putrid desire of a loathsome victim to fate. Nurtured in the belly of the beast is an everlasting redemption. Enchanted by romance. Rêves sombres. La fin? A prayer not granted. The perfect blasphemy is benediction. Thus, my marred supplication. I look away from the mirror.