Above the heavens was an ocean In the ocean there were the drowns and sorrows of the world From the rain there came the sorrows And the rain held the secret to living Dante slowly walked up a bridge From his mind, there came a painting of rain The rain was his mind. It was in his mind and his mind was him. His trudging boots were worn and worthless. On the bottom was a hole. The rain from around him flooded his sole. His feet were broken and worn. No one knew where he was, It was 3am on a Tuesday morning, Dante held his empty pocket aggressively On his left hand was a beautiful ring, but it had lost its reason. Dante was now at the top of the bridge. "Why is it that even whenever everything is right, wrongness eventually takes over?" Dante took off his ring and threw it at the river, almost trying to harm it. He felt like half a man. His mind was warped to an anger. He stayed up on the bridge. His mind was forcing him to think about everything. In the distance the sun began
I write short stories and poetry sometimes. I deconstruct writing standards.