Anything rhythmically or structurally varied from general fiction.
It used to be,
you could do or say,
whatever you wanted,
but not today.
Electro-eyes catch all,
we see, say, and do,
and those that fight it,
are really far too few.
Spectral spies,
in darkened skies,
death’s gath’ring above.
Through them flow,
autonomous raptors,
whom slit the throats of doves.
Give a name,
they’ll show you a target.
Feel the same,
you’ll soon be mark-ed.
And we’ve only ourselves to blame.
You find her eyes are dead,
cold and feeling-less.
They suck you in with dread,
leave you without happiness,
but the Siren’s song,
is far too strong,
and you’re already long gone.
She came on like wind;
slow, cool, soft,
then your wrists were pinned,
your body hoisted aloft.
Spinning went your mind,
for those of her kind.
Find sustenance in wasted time.
For you the end is near,
She will suck you dry–
the heart’s love,
the eyes’ fear.
Death is yours only to defy,
but it will come soon,
for life is its boon,
and your name,
written in its rune.
A cautionary tale,
is all you’ll become–
an old dusty trail,
of bones and then some.
For the Siren’s song,
is far too strong,
and you’re already long gone.
Splitting Earth and thunder.
A storm that blows foretold.
Though the speechless wonder,
ancient eons more than old,
could topple a mighty empire,
and its power goes much higher.
Coming from the north and west.
The winds shall raise the sea.
Bringing forth a final test.
Only passed with unity.
We are human,
but may face ruin.
When the land at last has drowned,
and our hubris is flotsam drifting by,
there’ll be another splitting sound,
as the last of mankind’s-wise,
hearts break,
and choose to fade, rather than stay,
despite all the greatness we’ve sewn.
If only we might see the future,
perhaps the foolest of us all would know,
how important be the suture,
we should now begin to sew.
For we have all done our damage,
a grave disadvantage.
And though we cannot take the blame,
for having been born lame,
as long as we embrace our past
correct mistakes,
we might be in line for
a dying breath’s, paid fine.
Or else a day shall come to pass,
when Human-kind’s forgot, at-last,
and whether alone or together, en-masse,
we’ll have long turned from present to past.
If only we might see the future.
If only we might see the future…
The creature is emerging
from its long respite.
The creature it is waking,
having slumbered a long night.
And now with daylight,
a goal in its sight,
it will labor,
until the job is done right.
An hour.
a day.
A whole month of May.
It matters not,
so long as it,
has its way.
It had a vision,
spawned of a fevered dream,
to coerce reality,
restitch its seam.
Whether it does or nigh,
depends on the creature;
its lasting high.
For fevered dreams are brutal–
can build forever to a sigh.
Wordsmith of Sol 