Sitting atop a ledge

January 4, 2010
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Sitting atop a ledge, it stared across the plains where souls are buried beneath the soil. Where each soul has its own story, and each story with its own past. Unhinging its talons, the bird elevates from the red stained gate. Gradually rising into the abyss of the clouds, awaiting the generous gifts brought to the unfortunate by the fortunate. The light begins to dim and puddles start to form, just as a bouquet of multicoloured flowers sat down quietly. A gust of wind, and an acceleration of speed, the black, now barely a shadow, swoops down. Landing to the right of the orchard scented pedals, the unknown turns around; desperately focusing on the lack of courage now running away and faced with the end. A quick twitch the red eyed, what used to be a bird, flaps straight toward the moving, soon to be soul. A cry for help, unheard because of the strikes in the short distance, muted moans and turned down screams, all but a past in her fable. Her deteriorating body is distributed to the earth underneath a tombstone. She, among the many, are part of the beginning to the end. The light shall rise again to the east, and only will the shadow continue to follow and creep.

The storm passes as though it was never there. Its remnants are now a shadow of a lost, distressed voice. She, now forever gone will be beneath the shadow, the shadow of death and life. A corrupted world past give this, the now future a terrible and harsh fate. Underestimating the effects and overestimating the wealth and prosperity, is awaited by chaos and loss of human life. It will not be stopped, like a shadow it will change forms to adapt. The light shown at dawn will produce the same shadow opposite at dusk, but to get there it changes its shape as time changes seconds. Evacuations of villages, of cities, of provinces, of countries will be inevitable. Everything shall be lost in weeks to what took centuries to build. Immunity will be scares but will be enough to repopulate the wreckage left behind. A righteous man will show his true colors, his true cruelty. Someone’s generosity will turn into greed and selflessness. The steady beat of our known rich world will have clotted artery, only a high frequency jolt can correct the past.





A murder is now headed for the mainland. The humming of their flapping wings can be heard for miles across the plains. A muffled noise of a grape picker in the distance is soon no more. The murder, being unbiased and non racist, leaves everyone, man, woman and child the same fate. Every breed, every instance of life will be taken away. Our soon to be future is now about to repeat our beginning. The lives of the careless will meet the few lives of the kind and exchange faces underneath their skin. Just as a wise man predicted, our greatest accomplishments will become our greatest disasters. As the murder continues its travel to the populated lands of the ungrateful, they pick off wonderers like those grapes at the farm. One by one will be strained and drained, added to the soil of infinite souls. This is soon to be the rebirth of our future but past distinct lives. The past will kill us all, while the tainted blood of our airborne predators continues to flap…

Sitting on a ledge
unable to reach
it cocks its head
and lets out a screech

on the way down
sparks as it flies
reaching the unknown
unable to cry

the talons dig in
as she tears for none
the unknown is coming
so you better run





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