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Im memory of Doyle...
This is a bastardized concoction of "The Price of Business" and "American Gods" inspiriation. And I think I was really morbid when I thought of it last night. But it's here, and I thought the idea was worthwhile even if its execution is poor.
The soles of his feet are burning with the friction of his heat and his fear, and the grinding into the metal grill like skidding tires on a highway. He is the one in twenty-five thousand who will find their coffins of twisted metal to satisfy an inflexible statistic.
His legs shake and falter with trembling apprehension, like those who reach for the carousel’s brass ring and those that tumble from the sky. He is the one who lags and is trampled upon on the quest for progress. His bones are the mortar in China’s Great Wall; his blood is the fuel to travel to new frontiers.
But he doesn’t stumble as he launches himself, like Challenger and Icarus, into the void of air and over the stunned faces of those below him, watching with awe and despair should he fall. His vision blurs like the child to become a kobold, a sacrifice for his future incarnation, a chrysalis to become a butterfly. His heart bursts that he doesn’t fail as he leaps toward the burning, glowing weapon. His feet dance in the air like a woman dancing to her husband’s pyre. He is sati and honor.
At the pinnacle of the leap, the climax, the apex, his arms are splayed out as if nailed to the air. He is the Viking with his hands digging against an old oak tree and a spear of beech bleeding out his life between the ribs. He is the many thieves and heretics that stood on broken legs on the cross, their names blown away with the desert winds of time. He is the scapegoat chased out into the woods, lame footed and blind from thorns in his eyes.
He lands on the railing, his arms flailing with the strength of Goliath, convinced in his power of arms to suggest one-on-one combat, to avoid all-out war until a stone struck him between the eyes. He is the emblem, the ideal and mascot. He is the gesture of Socrates drinking down Hemlock with a hearty laugh and Queen Anne parting her hair for the executioner’s convenience. But he just wants to cry.
His fingers and hands are shaking from the pain, burning from the fire that was supposed to purify his mixed blood. He is the prophet with milk white eyes, the oracle driven mad in order to foretell events that have no certainty but to assuage superstitious minds. He is the first one in the line of fire to fall, the human shield, the loudest voice, the foolhardy hero.
The lines are broken, and an explosion ratchets through the air and through his chest, rattling his heart and making his breath stop. He is the martyr for his cause, the symbolic last remains of an old order that must be purged for the awakening epiphany. He is Babylon and Roanoke. He is Charles IV’s conversion and Brian Boru’s relinquishment. He is the pillar held in place so that all do not fear death’s inevitability. He is the grain of sand that is a moment in eternity. He is in the defining moment that will soon end.
And as his last shreds of consciousness dissipate into the white, he wonders, like all the martyrs before him have, if it is really worth anything at all.
The soles of his feet are burning with the friction of his heat and his fear, and the grinding into the metal grill like skidding tires on a highway. He is the one in twenty-five thousand who will find their coffins of twisted metal to satisfy an inflexible statistic.
His legs shake and falter with trembling apprehension, like those who reach for the carousel’s brass ring and those that tumble from the sky. He is the one who lags and is trampled upon on the quest for progress. His bones are the mortar in China’s Great Wall; his blood is the fuel to travel to new frontiers.
But he doesn’t stumble as he launches himself, like Challenger and Icarus, into the void of air and over the stunned faces of those below him, watching with awe and despair should he fall. His vision blurs like the child to become a kobold, a sacrifice for his future incarnation, a chrysalis to become a butterfly. His heart bursts that he doesn’t fail as he leaps toward the burning, glowing weapon. His feet dance in the air like a woman dancing to her husband’s pyre. He is sati and honor.
At the pinnacle of the leap, the climax, the apex, his arms are splayed out as if nailed to the air. He is the Viking with his hands digging against an old oak tree and a spear of beech bleeding out his life between the ribs. He is the many thieves and heretics that stood on broken legs on the cross, their names blown away with the desert winds of time. He is the scapegoat chased out into the woods, lame footed and blind from thorns in his eyes.
He lands on the railing, his arms flailing with the strength of Goliath, convinced in his power of arms to suggest one-on-one combat, to avoid all-out war until a stone struck him between the eyes. He is the emblem, the ideal and mascot. He is the gesture of Socrates drinking down Hemlock with a hearty laugh and Queen Anne parting her hair for the executioner’s convenience. But he just wants to cry.
His fingers and hands are shaking from the pain, burning from the fire that was supposed to purify his mixed blood. He is the prophet with milk white eyes, the oracle driven mad in order to foretell events that have no certainty but to assuage superstitious minds. He is the first one in the line of fire to fall, the human shield, the loudest voice, the foolhardy hero.
The lines are broken, and an explosion ratchets through the air and through his chest, rattling his heart and making his breath stop. He is the martyr for his cause, the symbolic last remains of an old order that must be purged for the awakening epiphany. He is Babylon and Roanoke. He is Charles IV’s conversion and Brian Boru’s relinquishment. He is the pillar held in place so that all do not fear death’s inevitability. He is the grain of sand that is a moment in eternity. He is in the defining moment that will soon end.
And as his last shreds of consciousness dissipate into the white, he wonders, like all the martyrs before him have, if it is really worth anything at all.
no subject
Da-amn
And as his last shreds of consciousness dissipate into the white, he wonders, like all the martyrs before him have, if it is really worth anything at all.
MelTalent still astounds me **huggles**
**snuggles to Doyleclone**