Prose Poetry: The Fall – 22/01/20

When I am slighted, I can become cruel. My words spit forth with venom; I cannot help my purging. It is as though I need to get them out, in order to stop the poison taking effect upon myself, my soul, and in doing so I hurt others by means of my cathartic process. Afterwards I should feel remorseful, but, not yet, not yet, a lone raven calls, not yet, my dear, we have to await The Fall.
 
What is The Fall, you may ask? Let me explain simply, The Fall is when everything culminates and crumbles from a formidable boulder into shattered, tiny pieces, the strong once broken, forming mere pebbles settling into dust clouds, which really are unsettling. My exterior, strong and generally kind, now turned cold as of recent times, has been dismembered into gravelly limbs and such that really, didn’t need any adjustment at all. I had pooled my energies and forced myself into intensely focusing on one or two tasks alone, and in doing so, my stresses had increased tenfold. And the way I perceived being treated or mistreated really spoke volumes to my self-harassed being. I convinced myself that I was the most obvious victim.
 
So, essentially speaking, The Fall is when one falls apart. Strictly speaking, symptoms are as such, when I rock the boat slightly, testing the waters, then finding it fine, I start pressing back and forth violently, making certain I am causing a commotion, then suddenly the boat keels over and the only air pocket is the oxygen underneath the boat.
 
I must breathe into this prison,
For without breath there is no hope.  

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.

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