The Landfill of Souls By Elisa Bon It was a strange time, a time one does not want to have recollection of, no precisely the days of a peaceful Eden that ended so soon. The landscape is stained with impurity and the sky does not look upon the earth with gladness. The spirit or at least the subconscious hoovers beyond time and space. A fortune it is to travel and to seek after those matters which are intangible. Knowledge is not spoken with words but perceived as some incorporeal, intelligent form that transcends descending upon the seeker of truth. To the right, flames rise from the deepness of the earth. Orange, purple, yellow flames of pure incandescent and consuming fire rush to the surface with an implacable and unmerciful appearance. Anything succumbing into it is submerged in an ocean of hopelessness, and a way of no return. The soil is covered with flesh, that of mortal souls both young and old, opulent and peasant, male and female, even the children fall prey to the inferno. The flesh is dispersed across the land like in the days of a great devastation falling upon the land. Why such judgment upon the children? But the mind is never too young to understand or to reason pertaining to the path of virtue. The soil loosens under their feet even when they run for cover. No place to hide for it seems that the very soil is aware of their demeanor. There is no root left or a trace of arrogance, the intention of the heart is an immediate relief of the former condition, not a regret or contrition is found in them. They are trapped on the soil that loosens beneath and gluey moisture keeps them in place bonding them to the mud forming a human ball rolling across the land reaching certain high and volume. Heads sticking out from the moist soil, legs, feet, hands and arms. If there was a time of reflection would they grab a hold of it? But the conscience was shot up many times, and the river run wild without any boundaries. Life is not extinguished from them, they appeared like soulless corpses retaining the knowledge of everything they did upon the earth, but there is no other path they can love. A huge landfill of humans with ball after ball of mud and flesh rolling throughout the earth in the direction of the pit of fire; as they fall onto the pit, a sudden realization of their rebellion kicks in, one of the many calls that were ignored, but now there is only hopeless turn back. Horrible screams unheard off, like one who is afflicted by the presence of pure evil. A familiar soul stands to the left and the pit to the right. The shekels lay on the soil, and some fall from the sky, but there is not value in them that can be lust after. The seller is not more and the buyer is vanished. The shekels also roll into the pit but some stay in the soil for there are more souls to come along. Speechless the spirit observes the event, but the young soul craves for the shekels. A generous smile from her lips in the midst of chaos, and no time to consider reality, only the here and now. She, like the sculpture of salt entertains the ephemeral. How weak is the human weakness. Why do you anxiously pursue the shekels? Do you not see them being consumed by the fire? Perhaps too young to see or too careless to notice, but at the end there is not a valid excuse that exist. The balls of flesh mingled with mud do not cease to reach the pit and drop into it. Here comes one, but this one stops in front for a moment...a familiar face is trapped unable to move her arms to break free. Those are the little fee that once ran to embrace the ocean waves; her face is as the face of death. There are not words only tears. How can I snatch her soul from the pit? Does she remember the admonitions of a life time? There are not words only tears and sadness, her finale was the product of her choices... and, them? They made a choice too.
Posted on: Sun, 14 Jul 2013 03:44:17 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015