Where the wild things roam

Today I watched as an army, dead but for their feet all stomping to the sound of an intangible dream, proceed. silent warriors of a presumed glory. Today I witnessed the procession of an army not present. Guns are drawn, painting bloodred roses atop fields of rich brown skin. Today natives were murdered, and I was the only one to see them fall.
Here is the difference between a native and a pale skinned conqueror: one wears hand built moccasins with furry leather tails dangling from the top, which I love to watch dance to the rhythm of human movement. The other wears long, brown lace up boots. These specimens of another world resist movement entirely. they are stiff, persistently unchanging, such that each person resembles the next if you were to only see their ankle down, where the dress then covers continuous leather. No individual history was given to those leather boots, or at least none but what the shop owner witnessed. They were magical things which appeared sumptuously presented on wooden shelves, bought with metal coins, then shoved onto hungry feet. But those native moccasins, they were animals in a different form. Creatures sewn together by skill and culture. Those moccasins told a story, that every brown skinned was aware of.
Oh, how I longed to share the joy of that story. How I longed to race with the buffalos, my leather tails dancing with the thump of my feet, how I longed to be free. I was not born for a life of conquest. I did not thirst for the captivation of new territory, and the growing of alien crops in a wild land. I wanted to call this wild thing, this new world my home, not my investment. I wanted to be one with all that pulsed through the quiet trees and the cry of hawks. I wanted to be free.
My name is Mary Ann, and I am not a real pioneer. I'm just a bird in a cage so to speak, a bird waiting to be unveiled. To run and run into deep forest and never come back.

Watery heart

The eternal, unforgiving void of a desire unquenched, a desire instead fed by the monstrosities of the illogical mind...
"Come" it whispers, fierce and persuasive, "come to the everlasting cave of opportune dreams, come dwell with the rats and the kings and those inbetween, come join us in ceremonial thought. No hatred or demise will stir, nothing to wake you from pleasent dream, merely the sound of your own heart drowning"...

The Age Of Technology

What will this be... an expansion of digital nothing. Megalithic gears turn, a bastion for the creation of modern society. Still now, up in the grand, gleaming towers of corporate power, fate is decided. For fate is in their hands so long as we are compellingly lenient, consuming like hungry sows down here in our comfort boxes called houses, sitting here as those megalithic, synthetic gears turn to propel repelling magnets, to create the digital hemisphere of a new world. Now, nothing is tangible. Now, we are coalesced with a void of a crevice, pure and intangible idea. This is the age of technology.

symbiosis

A thick gauze of courage encircles a broken body. None see past this perfect guise, no clue preludes the soul's death. Yet, one aspect is present both below and above that gauze of courage: peace is eminant. Alone she fights, while that clever mask plays, carefree, with The minds of her comrades. In this way pride wins, but symbiosis is present still. Let the soul's demon live, but let the mind grow stronger in it's wake.

picturesque

Liquid. Translucent, liquid, I float...
no cuurrent shivers, no spark of unprocessed energy enters my platform. Everything, every being silent in the halls, the nooks and cranies of my mind but one strong voice echoing, reverberating along the tall stone walls....
my own truth, my own soul, my own reality.

This is the past: a robust figure next to a doorway, warm caramel color exuding amidst the walls and the people in front of them. Snow descending, hot chocolate by the fire. Another figure by an elegantly lavished stool. Eyes spark, and contrast is united. Peace. Balance. This is the future: black earth, fertile with the decayed remenants of humanity. Warm caramel has burnt to a powdery soot, chocolate grew to hot... it spat out the love and gave way to hatred, deep and rich as molasses. This is what the future ground consists of, beneath my tiring feet. the remains of a since gone decorum, an overpowered empire. to think, to gaze at the past and think, that this glory will soon be tred upon like scum. As for the present: the present is unknown, I live in the past and dream of the future, but we only know with certainty one thing of the future: Power will die. Weakness will die. death awaits like a silent guardian, menacing and yet spectacular, the fear of a territory unconquerable thrills our imaginations.

Rumor has it

Rumor has it that the earthy branches,
Fallen victim to years of servitude,
have come to stand
resolute in denial.

In denial of humanity,
They've come to play,
Their roots igniting,
Setting flame to
Hopeless enterprises,
And bland pride.


For these are your ancestors
There, between reality, and
The degradation of myth.
Their trunks,
They are dwindling-
Once kind master
To the upheaval of nature.

Yet still,
Look here,
The past is present
In the rough bark,
Laden with
Feeding termites and battle wounds
From the economic slaughter.

Here they stand, supreme
Cold reminders
Of our mistaken truth