ISSUE I: P(art) of the Soul

PROSE
W
hite walls adorn the sparse compound where crisp leaves whisper
sour truths along the opaque floor where sun dried feathers flutter
in the morning air. But soon fiery skies will open to lambaste stony
archways, barren and dilapidated. A place where radioactive ignorance left a human
wasteland to grow unkempt and anomalous amidst stretches of lush scenery.
This offshore land sat hidden amidst the façade of tropical splendor where new
technology served to deceive the masses as memories sat as fallacies expunged
from the great cannon of popular history derived solely from masculine arrogance,
a device so easily weaponized by bureaucracies contrived and driven by inertia. But
still in the memory of some sat this tragedy where thousands lay under tropical heat
simply awaiting an eternal rest dignified.
But this microcosm served as a constant reminder of the folly of men never
quenched by enterprise and fiscal growth. For deep in valleys now dark and earthen
could hollowed homes be seen amidst the decaying carcasses of trees beyond time
and human exploitation, now left to die in slow rot amongst fields flattened by
substances derived in some far off laboratory and maximized to ensure destruction
fruitful to a victor callous and deluded.
However, chosen spectators in suits white do venture to the cusp of this vast plain
from time to time as vibrant wreaths darken over the spoiled ground, saturated
by the slow descent of the departed into a place of rest adorned with the artifacts
of the living. But this microcosm is no dystopia, nor no idle fantasy, much like
history repetitive and molded by hands mischievous. For deep in the hearts of all
intellectuals lies a stain of conceit guised under achievement where revenge and
inflicted suffering serve only to bolster a hunger for power so insatiable that to
destroy, is to truly live.
By A.R. SALANDY
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