The Dark Angels are a come and go crew. They create then disappear like street art. Their works exist in fragments, particles that float, dust motes that spin before the wind that blows them to faraway places. They are individuals that work as one. Deep as oceans, as impenetrable as the night. Art urchins and poets, they dissolve before they form. They are the Dark Angels, they are discharge. They are a bloody mouthful.

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

Prose Poem - Final

In giving herself to hate she committed to an emotion more powerful than she thought possible; more consuming than love, greater than despair. In so doing she effectively became the tool of the thing she unleashed - no longer its master but its slave.

Time is passing. It is a constant cascade of seconds tumbling into minutes that free-fall into hours. Days pass dragging weeks then months behind as seasons follow with the budding of blooms then the falling of leaves.

Life is for the living – an exercise in the present as the future takes care of itself whilst the past dresses in a filigree of nostalgia. The gift of life comes bearing responsibility to those we share existence with.

Her venom spilt into the stream poisoning its waters and all around it. The onlookers stared speechless, unable to conceive how such a thing could have happened.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

And so it goes. Good stuff.