Modern Novels

I walk by these historic streets of old brick and oak. A man with an absence of glimmer behind his eyes looks ahead at the world with a grin of indifference. Men of sanctity in their white, traditional robes. The eye’s of women behind the piety of black cloaks. Maroon churches, decorated with the sins of man. Prophets hung – like trophies of man’s immortality. I take shade before structures of a silent annexation of land and minds. The aroma of Eastern cuisine, amidst the contouring of reality. Societies split into microcosms. Men amongst other men, imbalanced in opportunity and wisdom. I walk past the modernity of man in the confidence of society’s content. Each step constructing a pillar of truth. The simplicities of existence fabricated within this material wealth. The elision of power and the elusion of justices; in so far that we may have lost sight. Nations, lighthouses without lights, candles without sparks. They write their novels of emancipation – in a room that’s ever so dark.

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