Prose VII


Knowing and loving the spaces after birth make the universe lead us to a means of conformity and light. I am God’s best friend who is like a specter from another Thule. The cadence police arrive with too much poetic license, suspicious of my quill, ready to revoke my ability to buy ink. I chose to write in spite of peer laughter. I knew it would be the death of me. Electricity was limited to a few candles worth of light, like a stop sign painted lonely and going to be more lonely. Therefore, I took a seat, loosened up, flexing my fingers here and there, opening them up to the wind, now and there. It’s a lot of work. Blood flowing fine then it’s time to use them at the polls. Just when I got grounded on Nobel novelic turf, elections become a good note to send to the state capitol or the nation’s governance seat. The train of thinking is writer-blocked in the stormed castles of the brain’s synapses. All my muses leave town. No one I vote for wins.

© allets 2023
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