The Day It All Just Blew Away

I was there when it happened
when we were promised an education,
The day the draft was passed
and we went to another country
to wage war, and bring order to lands unknown
only to find that
the days of Julius Caesar were over.
Bloodshed was the result,
And the fruits of our labor came to no reward
It was the day that everyone relied on the center
Without a thought that the center might fall
When everyone received health care and there were no jobs
and poor became indistinguishable from the rich.
Nothing of value of remained
the people stopped caring
Only trying to find something
to fill the empty pockets of their hearts
growing colder as the days flew away on cold winds
Investing only in their own demise
Knowing, but not willing to see the destruction being waged.
Looking at the staircase of life ahead of them
And being content to stay on the step in the middle
Unable to find a goal in life
And never finding the right one
Playing games of chess, where all the pieces were pawns
and replacing them with fake queens
With the kings of value set to the side
and forgotten until they are shot to pieces
Branches being choked and possessed
bearing only rotten fruit
which poisons the whole vine
so that wounds are opened
whilst bullets fly and death reigns
The unchecked madness of demons
have let slip the dogs of war
So that the sea is stained red
heaving around a bloodless, thirsty world
In which any type of curve
would give reason for lusty laughter
With no thought for lips turning blue
And unraveling threads burning steadily to their ends
Where life became of no value after the loss
And consciousness became a joke.
In which nature continued its rebellion
and painfully continued to wait
for the pinnacle to become finished
While the rest of the world burned
Feverishly scoffing at naivety
And ever ignoring the loss of hope.
That was the day it all just blew away
and we were as empty vessels.

A Story of Shadows

There had always been something strange about the woman. At the best of times, she was quiet and reserved, never saying more than a few words to anyone, and rarely leaving the house. She always wore a simple white dress, and kept to the shadows, keeping light in the house to a minimum. She lived alone with her father, who never paid much attention to her, but spent the majority of his time working furiously in front of the computer, barely sleeping, and turning in to bed late at night, when everything had faded to darkness, and the only light in the house was that of the glowing computer screen. He never did notice much, least of all, the changes that were beginning to take place in his daughter. Her already sallow complexion began to fade along with everything else, so that it began to take on a pallor similar to that of wax. Her eyes gradually sunk deeper into their sockets, and the shadows of her face became darker. Years went by, and still, the man worked, ate frugally, and slept away the hours of the morning, the only light in his life coming from the dull glow of the monitor. From the shadows, the ashen face watched him, unnoticed as time slipped away like the sibilant slithering of a snake.

Then, one night, it happened. The man had finished his labor for that day and fallen into a deep sleep, as was evident from his wheezing breaths. All was quiet in the house, except for the occasional bewildered chirp from a cricket that had found itself trapped in a maze of venting pipes that ran all though the house. Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, and there was a spark of red from the shadows of the eyes. For many moments, the specter lingered, staring at the man's sleeping form. Then, with nothing more than a breath of air, it disappeared. Far away, a clock tolled midnight. The specter had reappeared, now further into the bedroom, her features softly illuminated by the light from the screen. She glided over until she was staring directly down at the man's resting body, her face wreathed with a halo of jet black hair. Her white hand reached out and touched his face gently, and once again, a glint of red flashed forth from her sunken eyes. The darkness in the room suddenly grew blacker, and a chill ran through the air. The cricket was silenced in mid-chirp, the wheezing breath cut out, and a deathly silence reigned. She now stood outside the room, clothed in the purest of white, and yet somehow still clothed in shadows. Her hand reached slowly for the wall. With a click, the light can forth, streaming down from the dusty light bulb in the hall, illuminating all that had been lost in darkness for so long. The woman stood motionless, her hand held to cover her face while the other hand still rested on the wall, a white figure burned into the recesses of my memory.

A response to the point of life.

That is something everyone, at some time or another, has asked themselves. And everyone has their own interpretation of what life is for, meaning it is for whatever we want it. We have been given a choice on how we use our life. Some individuals have seen that life is too short, and want to have as much fun as possible before they go out, and that is their choice. Other dedicate themselves to what are considered by many to be "worthy" causes, and thus the point of their life is, in most cases, to make other people prosperous and happy to the best of their abilities. And religion is a thing that we have made our own, until it has become our own creation. We interpret everything as we see fit, even creating new gods and entities from our imaginations, and conforming our minds to follow them. The irony of this lies in the fact that we follow blindly what we have created, mere figments of our imagination, and in this sense, we are practically following ourselves. And still we look for an objective, a hidden goal in life that we may accomplish it, and thus find the real point in life. Everyone is searching, trying to fill themselves up, throwing everything the world has to offer into the gaping void inside of them, trying to find a point. Some even say there is no point, and still they live on, living simply for the sake of living, feeling empty, searching for something that is missing. It is as if every individual was born with a ravenous hunger, not only the need to live, but to find a point. And in the end, everyone plays the game of life, which is nothing more than chasing themselves around in circles, with each cycle approaching the inevitable end of death. We were given a mind capable of questioning, even our very existence, and yet it seems better not to question, because we have no real answer within us. Thus, we are still left empty, and searching, running in circles.

No one goes back to the true source, the one who created us. If He created us, he must surely have a purpose for us, other than being pawns on a giant chess board or just amusement. And still, this is a thought that comes to mind, one that we avoid at all costs because or mind knows it is a possibility if God really were the way we perceived Him to be. And still, no one asks Him, because of our unbelief and the fact that, we are inclined to trust ourselves, and the things that we have created in our own little worlds. So we continue to philosophize and interpret, making up answers to every possible question that comes to our minds, running the cycles, and fulfilling nothing. It is a subject our mind cannot handle.

To say that our purpose in life is to do nothing more than search for people to convert to Christianity, so that we can go to some obscure place that we do not even know about called "heaven" and thank God for an eternity, is a result of twisted words and teachings made for men to blindly follow. It is true, according to the Bible, that God wants us to bring his life to others, but it goes much further than that. There is a purpose in this, one much greater than the latter, that can only be seen if one communicates with the Master architect, the one who holds the plans. We are indeed free to make choices in our daily lives, so let us make this one. Will we continue to rely on ourselves, and to run in worthless circles, or will we turn to God's Word to find the answer?

Disguised

All through the ages
We strive to impress
and disguise the fact that we do not care
Unable to recognize the few that do
We say we are conscious,
and yet still we are blinded
The fact that we say we are open-minded
is closed mindedness
It is still a category,
created for its order, because no matter what
we are unable to fully comprehend
completely limited by our minds
Knowing much,
but knowing nothing
living for something that is nothing
an excuse that was created by us
and talking brings us nowhere
Chaotic thought, emotions streaming
hindered by language and words
feeling that there is still something more
when perhaps there is
No matter
It is still unattainable
Turn back to focus on trivialities,
And forget about the nonexistent
Till out whole vision is filled with
the great screen of our life.
We give ourselves power that is useless
Since we were children
We never stopped pretending.
Making believe that there can be acceptance
when we are too far gone, wedged in our separate tunnels
Seeing light where it is not
And refuting the truth.
Insolent claims, that there is one truth
They will be trashed
And forgotten
Everyone has their own way,
But we are all deceived.

A Search for Nothing

Love is non-existent,
Except as a mere attitude inspired by art.
It is a dark thought, and one to avoid at all costs
But it certainly does hold some truth to it.
I immerse myself in its folds, and still find nothing.
And so it seems that we have hearts of stone.

Insignificance

The Universal emotion, the thought
of the century.
And still the unanswerable questions
idle in our minds.
For all that we can do,
in building our sky-cities, and having dominion on the earth
Sectioning it off into orderly polygons and shapes,
Creating sense out of chaos,
our own little worlds created
by our perceptions,
still, we flee away from the thought
of insignificance.
It is a terrifying thought,
that the world is no more than dust
blown away over a heaving, formless ocean.
And so we cling to the perceived reality
pitifully, unable to accept
that perhaps love does not exist,
that it is no more than a passing attitude.

A Parking Lot

Gazing into a cloudy, darkened sky
Shafts of light peering through the gaps
Illuminating in the midst of shadowy grayness
And far above, on gilded wings
A feathered apparition glides in endless spirals.

The sudden crash of noise slams home the reality
of a parking lot.
Raucous calling of blackened rags
flapping over asphalt and over cars
There is work to be done.