there was a man once, who went on a journey. as he walked further along his determined path to nowhere the flowers and grass withered below his bare feet and the sun fled from the sky, escaping behind the cold unwelcoming clouds. his face ashen with distress and hands shaking from the cold, but he kept beating on. a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky exposing God's furrow and expressing his disdain for this lonely wanderer. An abomination to earth maybe but God's reluctant will surpresses this thought determined to maintain the role of infalible. we all have our stations in life; while some more pleasing than others; but his was one of no pleasure to himself. he was tired of his constant exhaustion and sick of his never ending plague. he longed to feel but the nerves in his hands have died off long ago with the years of decay and the blood that once pumped through the endless canals of ventricals now lay fixated and still. he didn't take much notice to his dead sense of touch since all that he comes into contact with withers and dies like a flower alone without sunlight. he walked on as the clouds of dispare followed close behind then suddenly stopped in his stride at the sight of a field of wild flowers just above. in that instant he wanted to cry and would've unleashed enough tears to flood the world if only his tear-ducts weren't all used up from previous moments of self pitty. holding his hands to his face he dropped to servile knees he looked up towards the blackness above begging God for a reprieve, a second chance if you will, begging him to imanciapte him from the burden he's carried so long ago. begging God to let him die as he had done for countless others in his time. Praying that the Lord would allow him to become an angel, one of the many sycophants in God's court, but sadly his plees fell upon the def ears of God and the flowers all around withered as if in response to his plee.

Let me know what you think.
peace

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We are the music makers,
and we are the dreamers of dreams.

this was a reel gud story but i cudnt find tha poem in it at all, although the imagery was gud and the vocab was gud 2........ i think that this cud b made in2 a poem but it wud take sum wurk cuz nun of this rhymed........ o well it was a gud read none the less

.........fav part..........

holding his hands to his face he dropped to servile knees he looked up towards the blackness above begging God for a reprieve, a second chance if you will, begging him to imanciapte him from the burden he's carried so long ago. begging God to let him die as he had done for countless others in his time. Praying that the Lord would allow him to become an angel, one of the many sycophants in God's court, but sadly his plees fell upon the def ears of God and the flowers all around withered as if in response to his plee.


keep droppin
return tha favor

....bless

me amabu
where i go

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