May 25, 2006

  • There is a place for peacefulness even here in my soul where wars are yet waging.


     


    There is beauty even in these fields of desolation that I must solemnly traverse by treading upon.


     


    There is a waft of a spring fresh scent in the air even though the stench of the mortalized heaped about is mostly overwhelming and ubiquitous where the populations of density once lived.


     


    I’ve seen a glimmer of hope in a surviving young girl’s eyes even though the eyes of most survivors are severely darting about assessing the grid, evading danger.


     


    Everywhere are the farms unattended, and the grass of suburban houses feral and uncut.  But the wildflowers blooming in those  pastures and fields and lawns are ever so amazing after all.


     


    The geography of the world is, no doubt, changed—with no capability yet of assessing it.  Somewhere new discovers await a day to venture forth and re-acquaint mankind with this earthly recombination.  Who would have ever thought?


     


    We were in control.  We thought.  Until the Earth suffered a bout of schizoid depression, began to believe it was its sister planet Mars, and decided to relinquish the hammer of gravity for a few existential moments of inexplicable cosmic warpdom. 


     


    The phrase  “We were warped.” is now used to explain it all.   But it explains nothing.  We are as helpless to explain as we were to prevent it in the first place…or to predict or prevent its reoccurrence.


     


    It has been left to the newly wandering warrior-poets, such as I, to forge a crystal vision of tomorrow.  Check back with me tomorrow.

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