Wheels Keep Turning

I’ve got a post-apocalyptic fare for you all to read this week. On purpose there isn’t a full explanation as to what happened. My hope is you’ll get a few minor hints and then come to your own conclusions. I think that’s kinda fun, to be honest. Anyway, the story involves several characters. There are no conversations in this one, it’s more about the events through actions than protracted dialogue meant to convey what is happening. And I think that’s enough from me other than two things; it’s about 8,800 words long and have fun!

Trudging across the sun baked surface of what remains of the world after the end, Hans is determined to continue heading north.

There is nothing left for him in the south, principally because he’s lied and stolen his way through every worthwhile corner of ‘civilization’ and stash he has managed to come across. And if his departure from the last hillbilly on steroids town hadn’t been as hasty as it was then perhaps he could have secured a vehicle of some form or another.

Regardless, Hans feels travelling on foot is the more reliable method seeing as it does not require reliance on machinery which can break down or fuel which can run out. After all, there isn’t an abundance of refined oil helpfully located at regular intervals anymore. In fact, a great deal of it was used in the immediate aftermath of the end as society took a surprisingly long while, months, to break down. When it did however the outcome was bloody, cruel and swift. Thousands lost their lives, adding to the billions who had already fallen. But that was a long time ago and this is not about the fall of humanity. No. This is about the reality of the world which remains.

Casting his green eyes about, which are barely visible under the cloth that is wrapped around Hans’ head to keep him cool from the scorching sun, the thief sees little through the narrow gap other than the same sight he has seen for… He cannot say how long to be honest other than suffice to say this view is one he has been privy too for so long that he remembers seldom else but the sun baked and cracked ground. The dirt from which, fine and rough, swirls about where the remains of civilization continue to linger or where brown and dying trees, having not already succumbed to the lick of flames, still stand at whatever angles they might.

Feeling parched to choking Hans pulls a canteen from his waist; it was hidden beneath layers of ragged and filthy cloth. He filled it… He doesn’t recall and forgets to pursue the thought to a conclusion when he pops the cap, presses the opening to his cracked lips and throws back his head to feel the warm liquid trickle onto his tongue. Its taste is blissful, and though he would love to greedily chug it he does not. After all, he cannot say how long it’ll be before he finds more of the precious liquid, as it isn’t likely you will stumble across a lake or river anymore. Seas yes, but seas are full of salt and consuming it only ever ends one way, death. Hans isn’t inclined to die. If he was he wouldn’t be where he is today. Instead, he’d have given up long ago and allowed the world to take him. Something he’s seen the remains of many a time as a thief. Personally, he doesn’t understand it, the lack of conviction and yet…

His thoughts become lost when he seals the cap back over the mouth of the canteens neck. Yet, just as he goes to stash the object back from whence it came, he trips. A series of stumbling steps follow but Hans manages to spare himself the humiliation of going to ground, only narrowly. It’s why he stops, finishes squirreling the canteen out of sight and then looks back the way he’s come, his hidden brow furrowed with deep wrinkles. Sadly, he can see no cause for what followed, other than a failing on his own part, which grates annoyingly against the man. And so he grumbles quietly while shaking his head.

When he is done with his bemoaning he turns his mind back to the task at hand, walking. Alas, with the sun continuing to rise as it is it won’t be long before the sun will be so intense that he shall be forced to seek shelter. If he had transport or a great deal more water he could risk continuing on, but he does not and so knows it is best he gets out of the sun before it has chance to severely dehydrate him.

Already, he can feel sweat gathering across his wrapped scalp, the hair of which was scrapped to almost nothing several days ago. It might be a week, he cannot recall. Time has very little meaning anymore. It is a throwback from the days before the end.

Unable to deal with the sweat soaking the cloth around his head any longer, Hans grabs at the edges of the gap through which he is looking and pulls. With ease the damp cloth opens, though Hans does not remove it from his head entirely. Rather, he simply makes the opening wide enough to reveal his heavily tanned face with its days worth of stubble, a number of small scars, deep wrinkles much like you might expect to see after leather has been left out in the sun for too long, and sweat soaked skin.

Instinctively, the thief licks at his lips tasting the dust and sweat. The ingredients mix in his mouth for the few seconds that pass prior to him swallowing.

The dust is coarse, like sandpaper, but the sweat is the real prize. It has a tang. He finds it neither pleasant nor not. Rather, it is an extra boost, a recycling of a tiny portion of what his body has been losing.

If he had a method to recycle more of it he would for his body is slick with moisture. Alas, he can do nothing about it and so with head exposed to provide marginally better cooling he turns his focus back to walking.

To be honest, he had forgotten that he was not still stood in place staring back at where he’d tripped, but he is not. That section of blasted earth he left…

Trailing off unsure of what to say next he allows his eyes to blink rapidly. The aim is to clear dust that has wafted into them due to the meagre breeze which is present. For once the thief wishes the wind were stronger. It is seldom he would ask for such a thing but this is one of those times and for a myriad of reasons. The only downside being that the dust damages your vision.

Hans noticed a good while back that his vision is not what it used to be. Thankfully, as yet it has not deteriorated enough for him to need assistance. Yet, it is inevitable such a day will come, as it comes for everyone if they survive long enough. And if they do they will go blind from the damage done. Few survive such a change. And many think it’s as though the world, Mother Nature, has engineered it so that population numbers are, since the end came, controlled.

The thief himself would not be able to say either way if that were true or not and does not care. For these are things beyond his very limited control.

Another scan of the world around some time later, it could be seconds or hours Hans cannot tell, results in him spying what he thinks is something. Still, to begin with he allows cynicism to dampen his potential joy for eyes can easily be deceived in the wasteland.

On this particular occasion however, what Hans sees is no mirage or illusion, it is real. The thief is still a good ways off, he thinks, but what he has set his eyes upon appears to be a small collection of structures.  Yet, even from here they are clearly not whole, untouched. By looks of things they may have been hit by flames. If that turns out to be correct, he will know for sure once he is closer, he would not be surprised for many buildings, millions, suffered the lash of roaring flames when woods and forests burned. They had been unable to defend against the heat of the sun without the dampening capabilities provided by driving storm clouds filled with moisture.

Hans can’t remember the last time he saw clouds, rain clouds. Those thin white, wispy things he would best describe as fluff are not too uncommon. But enormous, dark, layered clouds, they are things he has not seen in a long while.

A memory bubbles to the surface. It is of the last time he remembers seeing rain and the reaction offered in response by ‘civilised’ people; a desperate fight to gather what they could before it ended and the storm passed. Such efforts ended poorly, with people dead or worse, dying.

You might not understand how dying is worth than death but in this world it is truth. For the dead do not suffer. A quick end is merciful. Whereas to be left dying is to be left to suffer, in agony, until the world claims you. And that day when Hans last remembers rain was a day drenched in suffering. All of it had been unnecessary. But things which happen in the world as it is today are often unnecessary.

Wishing to dwell no longer on memories of events passed, the thief turns his attention back to the cluster of houses. He cannot be sure that is what they are and yet he cannot imagine them being anything else. And why they are out here he does not know. However, before the end it was not uncommon for people to live very differently to how they do today. For the most part that is because the world had been very different.

He could likely remember it if he tried but is not inclined to as studying the structures is of more importance he feels.

What he has determined is that they have indeed been touched by fire. Not licked or lashed but engulfed. Still, as unlikely as it is that anything of value will remain, he continues to head towards them.

There is a chance the ruins could offer shelter until the worst of the sun’s heat has passed.

When he reaches the quad of semi erect structures he finds he is right on the money, which is not surprising after so long spent in this life. But, far more interesting are signs of recent activity. In response to that discovery his lips turn up at the ends. The expression can’t quite be called a smile though, and with it the thief goes about what he does best, searching. After all, if someone, in any number, has been through here recently then there would have to be a reason for it. And it wouldn’t simply be for shelter, he does not think. If it were he believes things would be different. He can’t explain how as he moves through the third property ignoring the charred remains of furniture and fallen exterior wooden walls, the detritus from which is scattered about in a manner he finds…

The floor beneath him creaks. He pauses. His eyes go darting about moments prior to him dropping into a squat. A shudder runs up his spine. He does not like the idea that if anyone were watching and listening he might have alerted them, revealed himself.

If he were not so concerned about such things he would wear shoes, like most people. But he does not. Instead, Hans opts for having them wrapped in thin fabric wound tightly and secured so as not to become a hindrance to his movements. Such a configuration allows him to silently walk about as he sees fit. Yet, in the early days his feet had suffered miserably. That was until they got used to the treatment, the lack of shoes, and hardened much like leather would.

Shoulders finally dropping, Hans decides there is no one around but him. He lets out a sigh of relief, then turns his attention back toward searching. The third house provides nothing, just as the first and second had not. The fourth however is very different to the others. And once inside it the thief is sure this is what he’s been hoping for, which is why he rubs his thumb and fingers together in a manner which he always does when excited.  It’s a gesture that is similar to licking your lips, except rubbing skin upon skin does not waste precious bodily fluids.

Unaware of the habit, Hans goes about carefully examining the wide open ground floor living space of what was once a luxury mansion blackened and stained with soot but otherwise largely intact. Far more so than the other examples and with only the glass missing from the opening within which it used to be housed. It was shattered, more than likely, by the fire when it raged through many years prior to today.

None of that history is of interest to Hans however. No. He is interested in something else entirely and believes he may have found what that something might be. Still, he feels it prudent to commend whoever came through here for their efforts, even if they could have done a far better job at hiding this…

Hans pulls on a small protrusion that has been the focus of his interest for a while. For his efforts he is rewarded with a door suddenly sliding open in the floor.

The thief had not been expecting quite what transpired and leapt back at the sudden sounds which filled his ears to bursting. And when the noises finally abate his head swivels left and right for he is expecting an ambush to end his life for the racket he has caused. Marvellously, no such event transpires, and feeling danger no longer looming over him he creeps cautiously toward the opening. It is pitch black, unilluminated, save for where the light of day bleeds across the first few steps unevenly.

With no signs of danger, Hans sees little reason to pause as he descends, a step at a time, down the flight of steps, which turns left once revealing a low rumble.

His heart now is in his throat. He fears what the rumble might be. That is until he sets sight on the small generator juddering as it powers a set of lights scattered about the several metre wide and long square space that is packed to bursting with everything Hans would ever wish to find, and more mayhaps.

Standing there, motionless, the thief’s’ eyes go wide, his head just about shaking from side to side as his lips morph into a proper smile. Moments pass. The thief thinks nothing of them for he is unaware, too in awe of this discovery.

Though once he realises his dallying he explodes into frenzy, more closely examining what is stockpiled here. Then having decided the best choices for his continued success, Hans lays into pilfering said items, which he stuffs into a pack that was lying nearby.

The only thought going through his head as he undertakes the thefts is that someone must’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to accumulate all of these supplies, and yet they have left them unattended. Foolish, he declares loudly over and over in his head. He is unable to get off the thought while he continues to lay claim and stuff into the pack what should keep him going, as he continues to head north, for weeks at the very least. Hell, there is a chance some of this could last him months if he were to be frugal, not indulge, and properly ration.

The decision whether to or not however is one that is yet to be made. He sees the benefits on both sides and…

A sound reaches his ears. The thief freezes in an instant. It was undoubtedly a footstep, and at the very least one. He would know the sound anywhere for he has listened intently for much of his life for such things. After all, the best way to survive is to avoid.

Yet, you came here!

He banishes the voice from his head branding it unhelpful at this time, but with held breath continues waiting, listening. No further steps are heard by his ears. Still, he drops into a squat to present as small of a target as possible. Though, he remains in place and makes no attempts to move or turn his eyes away from the floor above his head.

As time continues to tick away there remains no sound to be heard. To anyone else that might be comforting but for Hans it is not, not in the slightest. And he could not explain why if he were asked. In fact, if anyone were to utter such a query to him at this moment he would inevitably leap out of his skin, terrified.

Remembering the stairs he descended, how he forgot them he cannot say, the thief begins to turn. After all, that is the only way down to where he is and so it would be best to check upon them.

He sees no one and is about to edge forward, ready to label himself mad, delusional, when he is grabbed from behind, hand over mouth and introduced to a knife.

The blade, silver and shiny, drives into Hans’ neck. He squeals into the hand reflexively, and as you might expect the screams go unanswered. Not that they are intelligible or anything more than muffled.

Yet, the blade soon withdraws. Blood, thick and dark, pours from the wound as a result. And Hans wonders if he might survive, have the chance to break free. Then the blade returns stabbing a little further along from where it first struck. Again the thief lets out a muffled shriek. Something he continues to do with each additional stab that follows, until he is no more and his body is limp, floppy.

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Tragic Tale Of Jane

Jane is, at the bottle again.
Her life, is not what she should be living.
Days filled, with abject boredom.
Cause all her, friends are stuck on nothing.
So she, calls a preist on the phone.
Naivety, has never been bleached from her bones.
Then comes, the charge at the end.
She swears then that religions a trend.
Heathen, is the cry in her ear.
She spits, this fake has no idea.
And that she, wishes she sold out to sex.
So many do, and seem to prosper with it.
In that, moment a spark is lit.
Her conclusion, is to leap in that pit.
Damn her, worries and fears.
They can’t, keep her for the rest of her years.
So she, packs up all of her things.
Few of them, will she actually bring.
Her cares gone, feels like a new beginning.
Its why she, is still widely grinning.

Years pass, but the void is the same.
She found, fame but stayed in the game.
Her balance, has never been low.
Though she feels, like she’s dying slow.
Cause her world, is built on deception.
And each day, brings only rejection.
For her truths, were all just more lies.
And her body, has been morgaged to buyers.
But her mind, couldn’t take all the pain.
So she turned, back to drinking again.
In turn, Jane’s cashflow did shrink.
Then in swarmed, the sharks in the drink.
She smelled, of easy meat to pick clean.
In that moment, Jane realised the death of her dream.
Sad tale, been repeated countless more times.
And not one will ever survive.
So now she, simply sits in the dark.
Reliance on, her former assistant called Clark.
A man who, helps feed her addiction.
All because he, gets to live out his fiction.

Overthinking With A Bad Memory

I look at things but don’t remember,
Its as if my memory is made of cheddar.
But the cause I cannot comprehend.
Am I going round the bend?
If yes then why all this torture?
Maybe its a part of some disorder.
Or perhaps it is just a phase.
If so then let me be rid of this haze.
It stifles and does so frustrate.
Upon my mind I do not wish to wait.
I need an answer and need it now.
Dallying is not something I can allow.
For decisions come and they go.
To be left hanging is not cricket so,
Give me pause and let me think.
Don’t keep offering me a new drink.
The interruption hinders more.
At this rate I’ll never be sure.

Not All That Can Hurt Is Able To Be Seen

Night is approaching and soon the light goes out.
Do you really want to be the final shadow that’s about?
Standing alone out there with just mist.
Remain in place too long you may become missed.

Forgotten by the sands of time.
It flows away like water off a dime.
But fear is real especially if you close your eyes.

Day averted as the sun is blocked out by the clouds.
Its so concerning that this makes you oh so proud.
And why do you still insist on being out in this?
Its a conundrum and I can’t explain a second of it.

Forgotten by the hands of the clock.
Unlike some doors it contains no lock.
But fear is real especially if you close your eyes.

Disastercase

Run from the demons that want to hunt you down.
For they make this place feel like a ghost town.
Sad to say but it is so true.
What they have done will terrify you.
Send a shiver right to your toes.
Make you hope you won’t suffer death throes.
But the reality is they are forever near.
Consume too much life and they’ll be right here.
Ready to take what you have become.
Twist your reflection until you are scum.
Prey on the doubts that they forced in your head.
Keep up the pace until you’ve been bled.

Move Like Smoke

Hey everyone! That time of the week again, story day! This week I’ve got a fictional story set in a world filled with anthropomorphised animals. I don’t explicitly say where and when the story is based but seeing as it involves ninja, and Samurai are mentioned, you might be able to guess. That’s all I’m going to say on the story front apart from its 8,700 long and hope you enjoy!

Keeping to the dark shadows made more intense by the stormy night sky, Ru continues to climb the mountain. His goal is the peak, or close to it, where there is a shrine and by all accounts his former Master.

Those details are the only ones he knows for certain. What he does not know is how many bandits will greet him when he arrives. Much like he does not know how they captured Master Ento or their reasons for doing so, seeing as it certainly cannot be for wealth. Training is the only possibility but somehow that too seems unlikely.

At one time Ru would have wondered if this was some sort of test set out by his Master, but after so many winters as a ninja, too many to recall in truth, he seriously doubts it. Especially as a good while ago Master Ento made it clear that the only trials Ru would face from now on would be ones presented to him by life itself. His old mentor has not been wrong about that, not at all.

Because of that the Red Kangaroo is hurrying as best he can; climbing with semi-reckless abandon up the steep craggy rocks, rather than using the long winding path that leads, roughly, from the base of the mountain to the shrine near its jagged tip.

At this time of the year, the peak is capped in thick white snow, which during the daylight hours reflects what sunlight is afforded out like a mirror, meaning that it can be seen for miles around.

When he was younger, Ru would gaze out at the snow capped mountain and marvel at its size, its beauty, it’s everything really. Alas, when he first ventured to the mountain, as a child, he found that the peak had lost a great deal of its earlier allure. It was because he was no longer a wide eyed child new to its shape but rather a seasoned veteran well versed in the appearance of the towering edifice which he saw each and every day of his life.

Without warning a large bolt of forked lightning cracks the air, leaving a fizzle in its wake. The Kangaroo feels the fur all over his body drawn toward the static discharge. He bristles and shakes in hopes of warding off the pull it has upon his fur. The outcome is semi successful.

Yet mercifully, the bolt did not strike danger close. If it had Ru would either have been roasted alive or been forced into jumping clear of the section of rocks he has, thus far, been scaling. Whether he’d have successfully reattached to the rocks following such a daredevil move would’ve been anyone’s guess.

He himself is not so arrogant as to declare for certain that if such an occurrence would have transpired that it would have resulted in a positive outcome. Rather, he feels his fate would have been odds similar to that of a flip of a coin. Not something you would wish for at several thousand metres up. And definitely more than enough to make even the most hardened climbers head spin.

Feeling this line of thinking will lead him nowhere of use he puts the thoughts, dubbing them irrelevant, aside and continues his ascent.

Thunder can be heard rumbling in the wake of the flashes which illuminate the dark sky, made darker still by the thick clouds which are threatening to unleash another bout of…

At that precise moment the heavens open and rain begins to hammer down on the world below, and as you can imagine the rain reaches the mountain first of all. It means that Ru, being on the other of said mountain, quickly finds himself bathed in water. So much so that he feels he would be drier if he were to stand under a waterfall; which is something he has done many a time.

While continuing to be battered by rain, but not so much wind which is mercifully meagre at this time, he sighs, shakes his head, checks again that his sword is in place across his back and then tightens his grip on the rocks in hopes of avoiding any potential mishaps.

With the rain beating down as it is, unless it stops in the next few seconds which the Kangaroo thinks is unlikely, it won’t be long until this surface is super slippery. So, now more than ever Ru will need to concentrate. Thankfully, no bandits, if they are positioned around the mountain, will be capable of seeing him during this section of his climb. Regrettably, that won’t be the case later on, when he is higher up the near seven thousand metre mark. For even he is not capable of consistently keeping himself adhered to the rocks when the angle is past vertical, and in some places it goes way past that.

In his eyes to achieve such a feat you have to be a monkey or an ape of some kind. He is neither. He is a Kangaroo; strong legs, strong tail, upright, but lacking in arm strength by comparison. And had he not wished to become a ninja he would not be so capable at ‘simple’ climbing like he is currently doing either. Yet, alas there are limits for what can be overcome regardless of training put in, for the failures of evolution are unbeatable past a certain point.

Yet that same failing, if it can be called as such, was one of a small handful of occurrences that saw Master Ento accept a limitation. Not a soul known for such things usually and as a result when he did mutter words to such an affect Ru found himself profusely shocked. It even led him to standing, mouth agape in eyed disbelief. That was until his master decided to initiate a combat practice, without warning, which forced him to react lest he wish to lose before the practice had technically begun.

Master Ento, Ru remembers, always did like spontaneous lessons. These ‘lessons’ were the sort that would interrupt an already methodically planned period of teachings, simply because it would “build character and better prepare for the real dangers faced in life.” Those were his exact words. The Kangaroo can recall them as if they were last spoken not even a minute ago.

In reality it has been many years since his Master has said such a thing, to him at least.

Remembering all of this and much more, the Red Kangaroo cannot help but pause and smile.

 Memories of his mentor and the ways in which he liked to ‘teach’ bubble to the forefront of his mind. Though none of them ring louder, with him back on this mountain, than the last of the trials he faced. It was the one that turned his dreams into a reality, handing him the future he had always wanted, for it was the day he became a fully fledged ninja.

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Forged In Fools

Ride for the capture.
The tide of the rapture.
Call to the wind.
Until we must turn in.
Are these sights all true?
Or do we create them for you?
Soon my head does spin.
Leave us not in sin.

This decree on burnt parchment is not signed.
Whoever did draft it must have not been aligned.
For the words are unworthy and the lines go askew.
He who did write this is not one of you.

Pride before a fall.
Here does come the gall.
Face of painted red.
Puts these souls to bed.
But should we listen well?
Or end this hate filled swell?
What little does remain.
May come back round again.

This decree on burnt parchment is not signed.
Whoever did draft it must have not been aligned.
For the words are unworthy and the lines go askew.
He who did write this is not one of you.

With a spectre in the closet,
And a mouse in your chest.
Rumbles and ruptures will be your final test.
So never walk amongst the pleasures of flesh.
For if you dare dwell here,
Then down will come the blade upon your pretty heads.

This decree on burnt parchment is not signed, in blood.
Whoever did draft it must have not been aligned, before in came the flood.
For the words are unworthy and the lines go askew, they do.
He who did write this is not one amongst any of you.

Opposites And Parallels

You want scriptures.
I crave pictures.
The two of us are not compatible.
Cause if you say white,
I say grey.
Neither of us gets to eat, OK?

So don’t look glum when I offer to you,
This must end before we each do.
Its the truth even if we don’t want to admit,
Some day we will both be over it.

Parrellels and opposites.
On these stones we do sit.
Neither wants to say a word.
If we did would we be heard?
Chances are it is a no.
Even though the gaps so low.
Cause both of us are silent and loud.
As we drifted together like twin clouds.
On skies so blue that blinded eyes.
Far below somebody cries.
Whether through fear or great joy.
We can not judge that, boy.
For we are even more twisted.
In those ways we are also gifted.
Yet all our words just float away.
Lost even as they come our way.
Its like living in a cage of glass.
Neither of us gets a pass.
Just a space in which to scream.
Your look says you have also suffered the dream.
Like we did when we were young.
And spoke of tales that had been spun.
But those days are long gone.
Like a ballon that touches a prong.
So we should simply drift apart.
Reignite our own dosed sparks.
Though not to connect once done.
I fear that it would just go wrong.

Cause you want scriptures.
I crave pictures.
The two of us were never compatible.
Cause if you say white,
I say grey.
Neither of us will be OK.

Babylon’s No More

Babylon.
Fires so wrong.
Green turned to ash.
All for some cash.

Broke the promise of the dream.
All to increase your income stream.
Now the streets are shattered.
Lives lie in shreds and tatters.
Is this what you did intend?
No thought did you use to comprehend,
That what you breed is pure disaster.
Every word you speak is manufactured.

Smile so wide your face might split.
If only that was the truth of it.
Made up claims about some souls.
Each new one to further goals.
Stupidity been brought to bear.
You are the vilest of those that might come here.
Think it cruel while I think it true.
I do so hope the monsters come for you.

Babylon.
Its all gone.
Peace and life.
Sold to strife.

And I could say, I told you so.
Doing that would not, help you though.
Not that I’m here to, fix this hell.
So much is gone this place is but a shell.

Your paradise is lost.
You ignored the cost.
Toll does rise higher.
Ascending like a spire.
Still doomed to be fallen.
Innocent voices calling.
From their shallow graves.
They only lived as slaves.

Babylon.
Fires so strong.
Nothing but ash.
Ugly like a gash.

Best Laid

Gnaw at the parasites.
What you say won’t make it right.
Trade ’til the morning light.
Each new spark is none too bright.
Forced out of this life.
Periodic in how you wield your strife.
Measured out all of the night.
Bring silence here to avoid the fight.

But stumbling is all the same.
One false move will dole out the blame.
Gratified by the haunted tones.
In this place you are all alone.

Feed off the victims.
You need no restricting.
Cause this memories living.

And what you know may not always be.
In this case you breed and see.
Weave a junction out of mud.
All who dwell here are not good.

Shovel in the grub.
Ignore heads like wood.
Here is where we are stood.

These tales are tall and continue to rise.
What stands here was never alive.
Just an edifice donated to you.
The numbers now are only a few.

Gnaw at the parasites.
What you say won’t make it right.
Trade til the morning light.
Each new spark is none too bright.
Forced out of this life.
Periodic in how you wield your strife.
Measured out all of the night.
Bring silence here to avoid the fight.

Structure is but a word.
It sings much like a bird.
Doesn’t mean its not a turd.

Bathed in the absence of less is more.
Along the way to settle a score.
But such days mean naught.
Its like our days are primed and fraught.