Shadow of the Light.

Floating eternally, the object lays suspended on the endless black of day and night.

The orbs of finite radiance flickers as the monolith draws nearer. Intoxicated by its power, the orb is herded by the object.

Fear runs as deep as the ores of our world. Relentless in its actions, yet cruel in its words.

Darker than our deepest desires, Brighter than our own intent, Larger than society of interlinked consciences.

Fading in and out of existence, fabrics of our dimension seem to collide in an implosion.

Casting aside any thing in the way, a shock wave announces its pressence.

Suffocating the light, everything is encumbered to the dark.

Cycle of the Infinte

Rising slowly, the sun peers out from its black blanket. Evloping the tranquil land in an embrace, caressing the dew laden grass, bathing the endless curtain of blue. It shimmers down upon the calm scene, yet it does so with tender care.

Hanging suspended, The Sun watches down and smiles on the thriving wildlife. Deers prance slowly across the prairie. They stare peacefully at their sphere of life, bathing in its glorious rays.

The Sun paints the sky with a vast range of colors. Like a battleground, the sky explodes with oranges and reds. Its colors dull as The Sun dips below the endless horizon, and the black blanket of the universe encloses around its baby with a mothers care.


What do we mean to the future? What does the future mean to us?

These questions have been pondered by past and present generations. After all, the decisions we make will ultimately affect the futures of our children. If we so desire to make eco logically dire situations, it will be the responsibility of those future generations to help fix or delay the problem.

In my opinion, it appears that over the last decade, the rush for innovation has clouded the mind with greed and lust for power. It is our decision if we should intervene. It is our decision if we will comply.

We mean everything to the future, and the future means everything to the past.


Whispering out into the darkness, the wind foretells. Describing the coming of a mysterious entity. Wither it is comes to help or heed us is still not seen.

It shakes the ground with tremendous force. It breaths and ignites an inferno. It watches on as the slaughter continues. Watching the helpless plead for mercy, it smiles down on the weak. Desteuction is the only path it follows. It only hopes of salvation, but It finds nothing. Rain comes down in thick blobs of muck. Animal lay on the ground gasping. Everything stares back at it with fear.

It’s long arms made to smite. It’s extravagant feet made for crushing. It’s head made to plan domination. It is human

A Creation and Destruction

Silently a cool wind brushes aside the residue of a life long forgotten. Strings intertwine into the strong fabric of a family. All of them tug on each other; all of them depend on each other. After time the balance is interrupted by a wedge. Wedges force their way into the fabric of a family before being ripped out with ferocity. There is a gapping hole left to be unamended.

Years will pass in a limbo of the mind. Infected with the hate that drove the wedge, the hole will remain. That will be the truth, until the brave and tried pick up the needle and sew in the lies of the forgotten


Water drips onto the smooth floor in a rhythmic pattern. Darkness envelops the sound of the drops, controlling and bending it. Jagged metal binds flesh with great ferocity, piercing and tearing with no remorse.

Emptiness is sought, and it is brought willingly with tender gentleness. Senses become dull as the void is embraced with open arms. Explosions of unimaginative magnitude appear as suddenly with vast shock waves of vibrations.

Pain is a thought, a figment of the mind. Thought is code, programmed to be and always be. Conscience is found by those willing to look. Humanity is for those who can’t accept their actions.

An Amazing Cycle

Water slowly drip down drips down the crumbling walls of skyscrapers. Molten metal sizzles as the rain provides a cool kiss. Ash turns into a soft substance before riding the water down the cracked streets. A large crater sits as still as the residents of this crumbling relic, the air stings with vast amounts of radiation.

Sitting on the end of a street is the remains of a bakery, what was once a prosperous utopia is now the husk of a dead memory. Balloons fly, no longer attached to their child, floating aimlessly to a distant locations.

Sunlight breaks through the the bleak clouds, reflecting of the shards of glass. Quickly it envelopes the entire city, bathing it, before landing on a seed. Time will pass on and that seed will grow into a towering tree, sheltering whatever may come to lay underneath it. Time will go on until the memory of this city is a legend, before becoming a myth, before finally becoming forgotten all together. Although the memory is all but dead, the new life will still bare the scars.