The Rotting Violin
Playing The Rotting Violin, burning from the inside yet producing no flame, and in turn, no shadow, alongside his long rotten away bones, only the eternal damnation of hell carrying him on. Pale skin like a white porcelain mask, once a mark of purity, was now marked by The King Above's eternal gratitude. Pulling behind him was his army of one hundred thousand, turned to dust. Pushing the edges of his mouth until they touch his eyes is the only humane thing left of him, having no nose, no hair, no gloves, no fingernails, no ears, no mouth, no heart, only his moving feet and quick fingers propelling him on. Poising his rusted rapier, awful in contrast to his pristine navy shirt with his prim white shirt with pure gold buttons, doubled as a bow as if admiring the finest weapon in all the land, which it was, before meeting The King Above.
The Rotting Man
Running water brushes against my march and singing strings echo in my ear. Their voices dissipate like my dust, forever forgotten by history’s henchmen as the shifting sands groan in disgust, and bemoan my existence. I stare at the descending sun, mained but still divine. But I shall wait for it once more, as per usual; Immortality lasts forever, afterall.
The twinkling stars conqueror the sky, piercing through the night’s veil, distracting the crying sand, and give peace. I sigh, shattering my heart. What is death besides an empathetic moment?
As my heart shatters, I notice the sky is shattered. How can it be that there is no sun? But now that the sun is gone, where shall I look? What shall deprive my soul of its own being? I turn left, and there is no man. I flinch to the right and I see nothing. There is nothing. Nothing.
Nothing, nothing, NOTHING!
….
But maybe there was nothing in the first place…..
I am sure &!%$ would love to hear that one.
But maybe, just maybe, there is something. Something that quenched the burning sensation on my forehead. I remove my hands from my violin; Oh! the vile violent violin, finally relieved of its strain, jumps and rests onto the stillborn glass. I placed my hand on His mark, my one last sign of divinity, of my humanity. And I die.
*****
I was born for greatness. My name is Greatness. Just like &!%$ is his name. I was blessed from my womb and by &!%$. What about my father? Well my father is the source of my sin. They say women are our extensions, our 13th rib bound from birth, removed under the canopy. But my dad killed me. He gave me his will. This undying will that's forever pursued; in vivid dreams, in sinking lands, on the harsh oceans, in the perilous skies… ‘You need to be great. Since I am greatness.’ That's what my father told me. Therefore I looked and found greatness. But greatness isn't enough. I will be Greatness. So, I decided to become a god. &!%$ did not like that. And then, I died.
Mortality is never enough, isn’t it?
