Prose Poetry: Unmade

There are unmade things in the earth. Unraveled things. Undone. Buried, buried, ruins of kings and barefooted beggars alike, gold uncreated, divided into its component parts, only the potential of it left behind, a kiss of memory in the rubble. Everything lingers, nostalgia for a time once whole, a fragment of memory, uncoupled from the reality of it, the physical nature of a past long torn apart in an explosion of the universe that built it.



Everything is breakable, this place says. Serves as a reminder that the garment can be pulled apart by a single loose thread, a reminder that nothing is anything without the gears and tiny parts from which it was created. A person is not a person without cells and atoms and blood and bone and a million tiny splintered stars, a million dead suns turned to ash in our skin. A castle is only a ruin without mortar to keep it firm and unyielding. Everything is only a ruin, held together by glue that slowly erodes over time. And in this place, this place of all places, we are all ripe for the taking. For the unmaking. Everything lingers, even the ashes that used to live in her skin, her hair, her eyelashes. All of it is here, if you know where to look. If you know how to keep from coming undone.











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