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Estella writes of the silver craters that are deep inside her heartbeat. She can hear it. It’s there waiting for the hour, the minute, waiting for the second to be heard, to be finally noticed separate from just another thump, thump, thump in her chest. It’s a silver crater. Great men have noticed them for years, like the darkness of awakening, when they understand that there is no light but don’t realise it is still dark, dark as in the dead of night, or the spot in everyone’s heart where no light will ever reach. This darkness must be kept away from these silver craters, those large sparkling craters.
Many men and more women have pursued the Nirvana of these craters, seeing them only in their minds when they remember to blink away the addiction of sleep.
For as they envision those disjointed nightmares of never understanding the mystery of oneself, leaving alone those silver craters. Their nightmare is one day waking up and realising that the heartbeat that contained the secrets of those vast silver craters was missed during one of those blackouts.

Thump, Thump, Thump. You’ve missed it. It has gone. Like the gardens of Babylon, like the secrets of Egypt, gone like thousands of cultures before our own. Gone like the light out of Estella’s silver crater. Gone.

Only after she’s walked her soul into nothing, only after the destruction of all her magnificent golden dreams, memories and nostalgia, through the cruel blows of self served fate, only after all this will she be able to obtain the silver note and listen to it deep inside her heartbeat. She can hear it. It’s there waiting for the hour, the minute, waiting for the second to be heard and then she can go to it in all its splendour, leaving shadow parasites and puddles of discarded hope for the rest of them there who are all to asleep in their dreams of nightmares to ever hear that beautiful Thump, Thump, Thump.

The night draws in over her, the birds fly off back to the crevices from which they came and the storm clouds blow over her city bringing the darkness nearer and nearer. Her city’s void is where black shutters wave blindly and where the wind comes nightly to sing songs of sidewalk squats and anti-establishment invitations.

In her cities atmosphere nothing is real, only industrious, like shadow puppets connected by a single strand of embedded dirt causing her society to slowly rust leaving black heaving tantrums of moon catchers, scraping across the lonely path to strangers and gipsies starting to dance for the beautiful virgin gods that dwell in the midnight rain puddles. In her city she silently writes of her opinion that the city’s media is like the automobile industry. It is a symbol of decay in a world of mould and rust like a closing gate that rattles with the sound of a thousand homeless ladies selling their wares and waving their bangles towards the sea on the edge of sidewalk’s in Estella’s city. The city that crawls and calls, forever fretting over millions of fence posts and huge armies of men who need to feel free and negate any riding or weather calling.

She decides that the cities people all jumped into their homes a long time ago, surely no one was thrown in. And now their white picket fences are burning magnificently, causing a huge cloud of black smoke to rise over the lovers and the paupers, and when the smoke blows to Europe the people will run from their own cities crying of golden Gods and extinct volcanoes. Crying of broken disappointments, crying as Estella does now.
Estella loves her city; everything (she purposely hoped) was beyond perfection. She stops writing for an instant when sirens fly past her window she looks up and then down again.

Heroes, she thinks and continues to write, she has found heroes in everything she has done, heroes in what everything has ever done for her, heroes in everyone, heroes in the sandpit, heroes in the rain, heroes on detention, heroes gone insane. She knows heroes riding horses, heroes driving cabs, heroes picking vegetables, heroes picking scabs. Knows a hero in the wild, a hero on his way to school, a hero on the front page, a hero that plays the fool. She thinks of the heroes in the clouds, the hero they call sir, the hero that kills the ants, and the one that’s killing her, a hero crying gently, a hero wailing loud, a hero sitting quite so still, ten heroes to the crowd, there’s no hero in democracy, no heroes in the land, only heroes pointing at the stars, while sinking in the sand.

Estella once watched him sing so softly, she watched his silent hymn, she watched him dance so quietly, and then she danced with him.

There’s a hero on the late night news, there’s a hero in the nude, there’s a hero saying thank you, there’s a hero just plain rude

Heroes on the freeway, heroes dressed in fur, heroes shooting antelope, heroes shooting her. She forgets to add the heroes on the postcards, the heroes on the moon, the heroes in December and the one or two in June. She’s a hero writing novels, a hero singing rhyme, a hero living by a church, a hero counting time. She’s a hero, the people are a hero, and he, her lost, lost love, was the greatest hero of them all.

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The following comments are for "Poem of a dream (Part 2)"
by The Universal mind

prose poem
Needs drastic cutting (shortening). The last third of poem much better than the rest.

( Posted by: gomarsoap [Member] On: September 26, 2003 )

Some great ideas, tucked away in a mass of cleveresque verbiage. Like diamonds hidden in a landfill. Gomar's right -- you need to give this a serious edit.

Why? Because there's something great in there, waiting to get out.

( Posted by: Boy Howdy [Member] On: September 26, 2003 )

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