Do you mind telling me, I asked
congenially. Here I was egging her
on, a bit recklessly I admit.
To which she replied, err
it’s kind of rhetorical, even humbug.
Alright, reeking of animosity.
I’m not made of sugar and spice for
sure, isn’t the world not like that
at all, even if we all pretend to be?
Humbugs everywhere, even amiable ones,
who go to church. I’d speak out against
them, can’t help it, so best behave.
The stars are iridescent at night,
those glistening bodies breaking
on us, ready to gall us, put us
in our places, so we’d yield, armored
or not come to our senses and
a final date with sweet destiny.
Prompt: If you’ve lived long enough (like ahem, me), you’d have figured out that the world is actually a love story. That it is love that makes the world go round. So the purpose of creating art is to write a love story. But how does one do that, when the world is also very screwed up? Because human nature is. To err, is human, is it not? So take for instance, Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. The characters have to overcome their pride, and prejudice, to be a better human being, to find true love. Corny but that’s how it works. Humans need to be chastened, to come to their senses.
And to come to their senses means to love. Love is the answer. But fight is the way. You’ve got to fight for it somehow. So write me that kind of love story. Appropos for the penultimate day of 2016, is it not?