Rainbow
A rainbow erupts from the 18th hole. Upstaging the greens and causing the starched whites to slink into silence. Zooming up into the sky, birds swerve out of the way. Colours and chemicals and moisture and imagination streak across the blue sky, like a little kid going mad with crayons. Perfectly parallel yet with no clear distinction.
The unwashed masses look up from the grey to the messiah that spreads the light across the sky. Surreal yet perfectly natural. The eyes move slowly, transferring images to the brain which then shrivels up in humiliation. Of a world gone dark, with flats and sharps, and candy that nobody likes. Someone cries “shoot yourselves!”, another answers “when?”. Of a will driven deep beneath the soil, uprooted only by chaos and mayhem. Riots. Blood. Screams. Gunfire. The speech from the soul, floating about scared, scarred.
Past the valleys and the fields that used to exist. Now only flat. Over the monuments that stood as a tribute to a great race. A race that finally consumed itself. Without knowing it. A race that will probably never know it. One dies here, 2000 die there, the balance is absolute. Not in reality but in the mind. And it is the mind that is the final judge.
Past the ghosts of dreams, the little seeds of imagination. Slicing the acid rain and giving hell to the putrid clouds of greed and pride that float above the metropolis. The new monument to a race that has finally derailed.
Past the oceans, now filled with the crimes of humanity. Past the brothels and the whore houses. The state capitals, the breeders of the new world. Past things that used to be sacred.
Past the past.
And into the future.
With all the colours of hope. A hope that can be dismissed easier than it took to sprout. A hope with little hands and little feet and wings so large it would take a enormous amount of hate to clip them. A hope that follows a path, straight and true. Flying high. With a purpose. Flying because nothing else will.
Where will it end?
Does anybody know?
Somewhere far off, showing the way? In someone, showing the light? Will it come full circle to remind us that we will all die? Who knows?
But this I do know; on that green there is a little balding man. Dirty hands, bulging eyes, torn coat, shoes too large. Self consumed. At that 18th hole, looking for a pot of gold.
A rainbow erupts from the 18th hole. Upstaging the greens and causing the starched whites to slink into silence. Zooming up into the sky, birds swerve out of the way. Colours and chemicals and moisture and imagination streak across the blue sky, like a little kid going mad with crayons. Perfectly parallel yet with no clear distinction.
The unwashed masses look up from the grey to the messiah that spreads the light across the sky. Surreal yet perfectly natural. The eyes move slowly, transferring images to the brain which then shrivels up in humiliation. Of a world gone dark, with flats and sharps, and candy that nobody likes. Someone cries “shoot yourselves!”, another answers “when?”. Of a will driven deep beneath the soil, uprooted only by chaos and mayhem. Riots. Blood. Screams. Gunfire. The speech from the soul, floating about scared, scarred.
Past the valleys and the fields that used to exist. Now only flat. Over the monuments that stood as a tribute to a great race. A race that finally consumed itself. Without knowing it. A race that will probably never know it. One dies here, 2000 die there, the balance is absolute. Not in reality but in the mind. And it is the mind that is the final judge.
Past the ghosts of dreams, the little seeds of imagination. Slicing the acid rain and giving hell to the putrid clouds of greed and pride that float above the metropolis. The new monument to a race that has finally derailed.
Past the oceans, now filled with the crimes of humanity. Past the brothels and the whore houses. The state capitals, the breeders of the new world. Past things that used to be sacred.
Past the past.
And into the future.
With all the colours of hope. A hope that can be dismissed easier than it took to sprout. A hope with little hands and little feet and wings so large it would take a enormous amount of hate to clip them. A hope that follows a path, straight and true. Flying high. With a purpose. Flying because nothing else will.
Where will it end?
Does anybody know?
Somewhere far off, showing the way? In someone, showing the light? Will it come full circle to remind us that we will all die? Who knows?
But this I do know; on that green there is a little balding man. Dirty hands, bulging eyes, torn coat, shoes too large. Self consumed. At that 18th hole, looking for a pot of gold.
posted by Nishant at 1:51 am
1 Comments:
love this.
musing bout hope in a post-cataclysmic place. coooool.
be strong cubfuck- dont lose hope. fistful of steel.
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