A prose poem By Wagner Hertzog
In the house, this empty space is a graveyard. But the perpetual darkness outside seems so vague, abstract, elusive and sublime. Why those gray days have been so depressed? Happiness distress this empty misery in a life that never sees happiness begins. It’s hard to look upon these shadows of nocturnal horror and despair. Hard is the way this desperate days sounds, nothing more but darkness falling all over myself.
Today is the day for the darkness to come, today is the day to get everything that was left behind the trees of disfiguration. Those radical beings seem full of transformed hate, never passive, always destructive. Today is the day to taste for a fact the sense of an easier life, opened in perpetual doorstep of these night skies.
You know, this life talks to me. This life no longer exists. This life begins in a benign principle of attentive execution, that is miles apart from the essence of the soul. From the ones that are always free, the night will always act as a string of melancholy and deleterious dichotomy.
Night is not an illusion as strong as life. Life is not a cancer that grows from without. Life is a worried state of concern that grows from within. So, apart from this conclusion, the soul lines that always dilute in the rain will stand over a perpetual universe of silence. As diverse as the multitude of thoughts that rule our inexistent world devoid of prudence.
Sometimes I feel the distances consumed by paths of monotony. The hard lines that concludes the driving distinction of anger will never be out. The soul dissolves the grain of its disturbed consistency, but is doomed to perish while consumed by cruelty.
Sometimes I feel always worried, but never sentenced by hope.
So, life is a sin? Life is a burden? Life is unhappiness? Life is defeat. Life is danger, compassion, acquisition, sadness, darkness, illness, anguish and selfishness. Life is inhumane, but there will always be a castle of happiness waiting by the sideline at the river of comfort. Sometimes I wonder in the darkness, sometimes I wonder in the train of unscrupulous eternal days, sometimes I wonder in vain, sometimes I wonder in a worried state. And undoubtedly, people seems to be invisible at the peak of human light.
In the end, consumed by cruelty, what could I do? Without God, without hope, without sincere rain, without my space?