All our Prodigies are Dead

tis a field of grass

             All our prodigies are dead, such our hopes sundered are shanked. For when we were young, we hoped and wished upon a star to see such glories rise, to see us up there on platforms high, esteemed by all–loved inherently, even though we remained still young, still fertile and fervid in the light of life, not having worked hard to sweat out achievements by toil. For we could succeed  simply by the puffiness of our baby cheeks, the ardor of cute smiles, and the potential we were perceived to be. But now all our prodigies are dead. They lie struggling in spilled blood in a back alley somewhere, deserted by us and life itself. For we are not young anymore, our curly locks will not sway any mind to our wills, nor our cute affectations help others to see our side, and our smiles sag with a wary weight that has lost any and all innocence. For our prodigies are dead and now we adult are the only thing that remains in this bloody metamorphose.

butterfly   

            No longer can we be the cuddly cute caterpillar dancing daintily along the leaves many, taking a nibble here and there, as we traverse life in wibble wobble manner. Freed from the cocoon cramping, it is time to spread them and see if they work. You can’t just wish it into existence but you must try to flap, exercise the powers given to you. This you were meant to be, many saw a potential in you, many prayers were said, many words were said in hope, but now simply, action must be taken. For our chance to be prodigy is long past, the cocoon is open, your wings are there, will you fly? But, but there are so many obstacles, see the winds blow hard long and against any form of forward progress. Why can’t I just walk these familiar branches, nibble these routine leaves, why can’t I just continuously caterpillar, cute and cuddly, adored wobbly and wibbly, wondrously wandering, fat on fun,  and stay here in these woods with warmth welcoming, these bed of roses comforting?

            Well, perching where toads sit, will not help you see lands of wonder. Step out of the smoke immersing you–to fly high you must change. In this, there is no room for mush, nor small nibbles on either side. Know, it’s-a not you, foo. Father William was bold, so in age came a sage to be, bearing the elden crown of gray unfrayed. Though you may have been known as the golden boy, greatness prophesied to muse with you, you must now run fast and true, for none will just give you laurels for just existing. So you so you must go out there craft your own crown, whether that be of daisies, laurels, or thorns.

                You are not a child, a prodigy of potential glory nor an old person, aged sage wisdom from a life long lived, scars deep ragged but healed. No–the scars are fresh, the wounds still bleed–yet you are not dead, nor a wraith writhing in its death throes, no–flesh, blood, and mind still exist wholly in unity  so stand firm against the encroaching fright , engage the foes with meticulous might, enrage and enlighten them all. Let them all know Lazarus livid is not lazy in lethe, Job is employed, and though Jonah may be moist, he has a word to deliver. Brah Nebuchadnezzar, the fire wasn’t hot enough, Dear Darius, your lions are vegetarian, Hey Haman, how you hanging?    The grave is empty for my Lord still walks, so ambulate with or march off with your shame. For our prodigies are dead, see the prodigal son return home.

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Sitting On My Words

Give me a reason to exist

As I lie here with my words

Give me a reason to insist

To voice ideas to the nerds

 

For I will shyly resist

For why should I speak

Thus you should persist

if my ideas you seek

 

A silent stream I consist

of thoughts flowing between ears

yet there they subsist

kept back by vibrant fears

 

Therein lies the fatal twist

as here my shy words do stand

yet they obscured, are missed

as I sit, words detained, canned

 

To the Court of Public Opinion

In the court of public opinion

Lords and ladies abound

Testy swaggered with thought

Sheaths unfeline they hound

 

Yet arrows to your wings

Opinions on which you sore

Hammering, you hem and haw

beating ears like Thor

 

Thunder you may sound

Yet divine you are not

Lightning you may seem

Yet light bares you shot  

 

Who grants you rights to reek

Who extended the scepter

Hey, hang on man, hold it

Is there a reason for your banter

 

Yes you  have a mouth

and sure, you do use it

Yet does that  mean really

you should desire to abuse it?

 

Seek eloquence suave

Aspire to the brevity of wit

Inquire queries of disputes

Think about words a bit

 

Swag with testimony integral

Stroll with wisdom in hand

Saunter a sage savvy

So wise curt opinions stand

Such Rose Dekus Violet

Deku flying in

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Hearts are red

Bombs are blue

You’ve met with a terrible fate

Haven’t you?

 

Termina, the moon has fallen in love

Tingling happy to greet

So three days at the festival

Undeniably you will meet

 

Dawns the first day

Ghosts of the past descend

Roaming in for the cows

Hop, hooded bunny, defend

 

Now we slip into the second

Why won’t time freeze?

Head deep into the snow

There, Goron roll into ease

 

24 hours remain

Pirates, stay at bay, you wish

From deeps depressed, Zora ascend

At last with Ben, we can fish

 

Rage is red

Violent is blue

Accept your terminal fate

Link, you’re a deku