I watched as we unwillingly entered the storm–though it wasn’t a natural element unless man-made has become a staple for disaster. Smoke rolled from over the mountain, but its fury had been fast and far before. An atomic calamity; a world on edge; the innocent to be sacrificed for the egos who have it all.
We never did anything to deserve the ash we soon will become–at least from the ones pressing the button.
No picture taken.
The half-moon is swallowed by the warming blue and orange. Loose cotton twirls on the asphalt, the cool breeze lifting each stray for a slow dance. It’s quiet. It’s nice.
Just a quarter-mile beyond the peace and behind community walls, the tone shifts to weeds, trash, and empty plastic pints of cheap vodka. It was once a promising sanctum, but has become yet another ordinary escape for degenerates.
No picture taken.
I shake while sitting; I feel simple bumps, hear the clatter of uncontrollable motion, and see the outside as a normal day, but the public relies on this governmental stranglehold.
The public: a lazy bike rider who smokes away his bad mistakes without regret; a large man, a whole pizza to himself, friendly but stable and authoritative; a young man who has already lost his way; various Native-Americans of different ages and scents staring at various Hispanics of different ages and scents; an African-American woman at the front of the bus.
I’m being transported into the unknown. Coincidently, when a new group of African-Americans came aboard, my stop was next and I exited the worn chariot. It was unfortunate; I didn’t want to appear racist, for I am a white male and society has now labeled me for something I’m not.
I don’t understand. I could never understand, but it doesn’t mean I’m not aware. People are wrongfully accused based on assumption, others are pathetic in their intentions and mask their stupidity under a false sense of intelligence and entitlement.
The stereotypical public.
No picture taken.
Birds tickle the treetops underneath a cold gloom. One flies away to recruit more winged soldiers, feathers as black as night, intentions as cruel as the chill that makes the motion painful. They sit atop the highest point of a branch, proving they have conquered death for another winter. Hell is not as south as we would think.
The sky was on fire; a rolling explosion set to consume. Yet, there was hope as a streak of blue sliced in half the smoky orange from the foggy underbelly. The doom was relentless as it spewed over the top of the mountain.
An anxious sight not worth missing, but hope prevailed. (No Picture Taken)
An abandoned airport. Rust on the transports, stains on the concrete that once held the weight of too much activity–the heavy burden led to our self-inflicted doom. Only elemental consequence will be the future’s memory as they scan empty containers and bridges, but the dark sky remains a continual threat.
A dark and dirty gray Air Force carrier chugs by on the tarmac. Is it hope or rule?
Darkening skies consume the land. A storm between good and evil is simmering and is on the verge of boiling over.
An aerial attack begins its form; winged soldiers are perched in unison, ready to dive and destroy. Their form shreds the sky, and the wires that hold the squadron are about to shed the weight that makes them dip. The fleet faces north, prepared to battle the elements instead of cowardly retreating south.
The gray sky; the sun mimics the moon from the shaded film. Yet, a tear in the atmosphere presents hope that the cover can be removed – as sleek as a surgeon’s incision, operating to free the day and cure the cold depression. (No picture taken)
Dirt land. There isn’t much other than twigs, tumbleweed, broken branches, and layers of llama feces. The animals follow their owner; a plump man from age, but his long gray hair expresses a youthful, rebellious spirit. Steel sheds and trailers clutter the plot, as does vehicle junk and the bodies it fell from. A creek gently flows behind his property and through native land – a peace that can be easily disturbed by a buyer. He lets a part of his past go.
A desert pink; a jet stream of passing trails and wonder that is soon forgotten. Giant formations protect the gems in the valley. The sun sparkles the jewel box in the late afternoon, but the brightest will shine in the darkest of nights.