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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