Okay, it is time to introduce you to the hybrid known as "prose poetry". Not really a poem, and not really prose, this homogenous mixture of the two is in prose form, but has the lyrical qualities and rhythm of poetry. Let's see what you make of this one.
BACKGROUND: I wrote this one a few weeks ago and while it started out to be about someone I knew a long time ago, it of course wound up being about me (much like all art is mostly about the artist), and my inability to let go of things, to admit defeat, and the need I have to solve every situation. Enjoy!
Those in need of salvation are dangerous. At first it is flattering, to repair something so broken. It is an apotheosis, to pull a soul from so near death. Beguiling in its nature, pity breeds love, a kind of sick love that leaves you breathless.
They regard you with such idolic adoration, that even the whisper of your name sounds like a prayer.
It is a gross intoxication, like the taste of rotten fruit, yet so addictive, some think it is the closest they will come to God.
The curtain flips on you in an instant, from crimson to a dusty black. There are only two paths ahead and both are grim.
Either you grow to hate the sound of prayers, and whispers, even the sound of your own name said so pleadingly in despair. Or you live short days, trying to save them, from unknown foes and mirrors in their heads.
Both roads end in failure, and the fall from grace is thorny and red. The loss is so inevitable, it leaves only annihilation and horror in its stead.
Gingerly you stand amid the wreck of what you used to be, cutting your feet on broken dreams. There is no one for miles, old friends and lovers long left behind; a small trade for such godly worship as you have received.
Yet you are deceived, fool, because the battle was always destined to be lost. And while you wasted years trying to save them, there was no one left to save you in the end.
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