Born eons ago. My birth too was pain. Burning red hot for ages. Blisters and bubbles. Bombardment of materia. Until my shadowside got crashed out. A deamon revolving around my shoulders. Always reflecting our center point. Whether I want it or not.
That tearing too, was birth pains. Carrying stardust seeds of water. Of life!
Quickening my cooling loins.
Now again, I’m in pain. One of my children, upsetting my long rhythms. Shattering all the delicate balances, soo carefully crafted.
Chaos calls. The aspect of Kali will rule. Sweep the world in death and despair. Storms raging, waters rise. Drought suffocates, starvations slow deise.
My crust turned to lifeless dust. As inned bones grinds and rust. Sometimes the great bones of my life feels so heavy. Carrying the world on my shoulders. All I wanna do is see my children colourful, thriving, learning, diverse!
In prosery we write a story of 144 words or less (not including the title). The story must have a beginning and an end, and should not be poetry.