by Glenn Fairman 11/14/13
For so ever long as we are the heirs to this Broken World, we are fated to wind down as children’s playthings. That great inexorable tide, from which no carnal force can withstand, forges the frontier between despair and the sublime vision.
Wood and iron splinter and rust, while the days of men wax brittle and grow exceedingly precious as autumn bids her anxious approach. We are as little Wooden Children – cast from the dust and the ashes of promise- having been kissed longingly by the Ancient of Days and dreamed over since the Pillars of the Earth were fashioned.
Whether we fulfill that promise by attending towards that light without blemish or remain as the sticks and chaff of this Broken World is utterly dependent upon awaking from our opaque Dream of Sleep: in learning to both breathe and walk as if we were something truly real.
Have a poem, short story, or bit of prose you want to share? Click here. • (649 views)