Creative Writing AGAIN
This was a lame ass assignment about Utopia, and I didn't like it, so I changed it!
Utopia’s
Perfection
Utopia is a place where Perfection is the sovereign ruler. Birds emerge from their shells with full, radiant plumage and a strong, glorious song which they never cease singing. Fruits bend the branches of the trees with the weight of their succulent juices, fair dripping from their sun-softened skins. The grass is never greener, because Utopia is the other side. The waters are pure and blue; the forests deep and mysterious; the sky an endless field of cotton candy clouds. The animals are soft and doe-eyed, even the wolves, and death, disease, and destruction hold no place for humans in this world. All the inhabitants are pleased, placated, peaceful, pacified, placid, and Perfect, and every other letter of the alphabet too. Utopia is a place where Perfection is the sovereign ruler, yet she is a cruel mistress. The resounding sounds of the birds fall dead as they do; sung to death since every breath is drawn for song and not food, for song and not water, for song and not life. Their corpses litter the ground among the rotten rinds of the overripe fruit, fallen, their sun-softened skins split and their juices infusing the air with sickly sweet. This Perfect destruction lies unnoticed and unconsidered under the back-broken bent branches of the aching trees, whose treacherous master has laden their branches anew. The doe-eyed fauna feebly wander, eyes bright and glassy with too much overripe elixir, even the wolves, whose doe eyes are not made for the sight of innocent blood. The vultures would thrive, but then, there are no vultures in Utopia. The clear blue waters hide no fish and spawn no life; the deep mysterious forests conceal path after path until the only ways left are madness or death; the cotton candy clouds burn too easily under the relentless sun, leaving only heat, heat, and the scent of charred sugar. But the humans, ah the humans. No death, no disease, no destruction. Endless life, but not endless youth, and not a single route of escape. No death, no disease, no destruction, no Utopia. Only a hidden Hell, ruled over by Perfection.
Me, give me here. Me, give me now. Enemies and hatred and demise and despair. Yet the birds still sing sometimes, and the cotton candy clouds still scatter across the finite sky, born on winds of heat, chill, change, and life. Chaos rules here, yet so too does reality. Utopia is not for me. Life is not ruled by Perfection, but life is as perfect as it is possible (and prudent) to be.
Utopia’s
Perfection
Utopia is a place where Perfection is the sovereign ruler. Birds emerge from their shells with full, radiant plumage and a strong, glorious song which they never cease singing. Fruits bend the branches of the trees with the weight of their succulent juices, fair dripping from their sun-softened skins. The grass is never greener, because Utopia is the other side. The waters are pure and blue; the forests deep and mysterious; the sky an endless field of cotton candy clouds. The animals are soft and doe-eyed, even the wolves, and death, disease, and destruction hold no place for humans in this world. All the inhabitants are pleased, placated, peaceful, pacified, placid, and Perfect, and every other letter of the alphabet too. Utopia is a place where Perfection is the sovereign ruler, yet she is a cruel mistress. The resounding sounds of the birds fall dead as they do; sung to death since every breath is drawn for song and not food, for song and not water, for song and not life. Their corpses litter the ground among the rotten rinds of the overripe fruit, fallen, their sun-softened skins split and their juices infusing the air with sickly sweet. This Perfect destruction lies unnoticed and unconsidered under the back-broken bent branches of the aching trees, whose treacherous master has laden their branches anew. The doe-eyed fauna feebly wander, eyes bright and glassy with too much overripe elixir, even the wolves, whose doe eyes are not made for the sight of innocent blood. The vultures would thrive, but then, there are no vultures in Utopia. The clear blue waters hide no fish and spawn no life; the deep mysterious forests conceal path after path until the only ways left are madness or death; the cotton candy clouds burn too easily under the relentless sun, leaving only heat, heat, and the scent of charred sugar. But the humans, ah the humans. No death, no disease, no destruction. Endless life, but not endless youth, and not a single route of escape. No death, no disease, no destruction, no Utopia. Only a hidden Hell, ruled over by Perfection.
Me, give me here. Me, give me now. Enemies and hatred and demise and despair. Yet the birds still sing sometimes, and the cotton candy clouds still scatter across the finite sky, born on winds of heat, chill, change, and life. Chaos rules here, yet so too does reality. Utopia is not for me. Life is not ruled by Perfection, but life is as perfect as it is possible (and prudent) to be.