The Prize

in the silent darkness,

winter stiffness takes hold,

as yesterday’s warmth,

gives way to tomorrow’s cold,

the mist of time shrouds itself

within a veil of unseen sorrow,

as mighty gentle giants,

throw stones at posterity,

crumbling it to the ground,

to make room

for another concrete monument;

the children listen to the voice

of their colored god,

and it tells them who they are,

and where they’re going,

and how to get there,

and why it must be so;

and it helps them forget;

who can know

these depths to which they

have fallen,

who can understand

this darkness

growing within;

the sun begins to set,

storm clouds gather upon

distant horizons,

ancient fires blaze once again,

laying this land to waste,

like giant behemoths

rising from the night,

leaving little margin for escape,

doomed from the beginning,

they never stood a chance;

seven hundred feet below,

the end quietly waits,

in a world all it’s own;

just like the prize

in a cracker jacks box.

.

.