The Wasteland


This is a wasteland; the scavengers hunt on indefinite rhythms
Grounded around our erratic sun.
This is a wasteland; the nightmares we dream haunt our visions
While all our horrors are eternally spun.
This is a wasteland; its history demands no account and no preface
Hoping a better tomorrow will come.
This is a wasteland; its barrenness steady, its challenges endless,
Till our humanities slowly succumb.

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Dreaming A Watchtower


In ruins where the gallant fought, starred above
The reach of towering walls, enflaming
Spirits, Silence stands; a violet dove
Circles the Moon with lonely cries; feigning
And lying, sparks of Life that ebbed here, die
Again in memories, in stories, told
In various shades of red; all tales lie,
Lie buried in ruins while tales unfold.
Distant, distinct, ahead of where I stand,
A church bell tolls over the barren land.

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