The Hero (revised)
I whisper to my deepest self as I walk by the courtyard of the world.
The grey cloud of desolation walks aimlessly, chasing the urges within that amount to nothing; Their urges are fireflies.
The courtyard smells like dust and ashes; The grey crowd breathes it in again and again, forgetting the smell altogether.
I am instructed by my inner self to stay on the edge, but I slowly I inch my was into the middle of the courtyard.
The dissonant crowd mills about me, and I allow them to.
Subtly, cruelly they tear my White cloak of amnesty.
I am ridiculed by this tattered white covering, so I hide it well.
I become one of them, one of the faceless, nameless crowd, brainwashed by the stench of grey around them.
I am handed a bottle and put it to my lips, not caring what it says; its briny taste of death is well-known to this soulless multitude.
Close to me, and yet infinitely far, I see a White One moving through the crowd, untouched by their wares.
Her lips move like mine, but sadly mine are wrapped around the bottle; it is difficult to pray when your mouth is only concerned with death.
Oh, how I wish a White One would save me from this place with a hand or kiss! But that is futile.
The power to patch my tattered cloak, my torn wall, is within me; the answer was in me all the time.
A moment of clarity.
A voice within tells me to stay in the crowd just a little while longer; another firmly instructs me otherwise.
I realize what I must do.
I throw the bottle to the wind, and hope for the best.
The Hero's words should not be second-guessed.
Without zen_ this post would not be here. Where others simply saw dribble, he realized the raw emotion that created this piece. I will continue working on it, but here is it's latest form (as of last night).
Thank you zen_ and all others who commented. (keep critiquing)