I took a trip into the ever so blissful mist of a vocalist.

Silent by nature but never a stranger to paper,
His thoughts could fully scream and shatter dreams
in deadset silence.

There was no violence involved
In the motions he has evolved into a being of complete resolution, revolution and resolve,
his problems solved at most time before they've started.

The torment tries to bore his mind,
but like Moses he spreads the waters apart
that are in all reality metaphorical in meaning
seemingly seamless controlling dreams with the secrets of the dearly departed.

On a visit outside he closes his eyes and tilts his head back only IMAGINING skyward,
catching the rain in his mouth with the smell of ozone,
Convincing himself that he really is alive....
Just alone..

So his mind creates a subworld of sorts with cohorts made by the brain tying arms so to never drift astray,
of salvation, divination invoked by positive elevation gritting his teeth and planting his feet like Atlas against the coming day.

His shoulders would rather bend than break,
stress of placement is caused from the start and parting of friendship when power and status became invloved in it.

He holds the hope of home in his hands,
eventually, he thought his feet would split the sand of his creation, a footprint like no other, the battle of being in Hell to see the gates of Heaven.

Want to comment on this Prose? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Prose and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...