It’s a Friday night, Brock and I are at a small PokéMart near Pewter City called “The Ordinary PokéStop.” We’re nestled into a cozy little corner booth, the dim light glinting off the PokéBalls clipped to Brock’s belt. We’re waiting for Ash—who’s running late, as usual. This PokéMart is one of Brock’s favorites because of their “Berry Blends,” and his taste in exotic Poké-themed smoothies is as unpredictable as ever. Tonight, we’re sipping on “Miltank Malt,” a rich, creamy blend of MooMoo Milk and Oran Berries.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to feel the sugar rush—did I mention Ash is running late? On a celebratory note, Brock finally perfected his recipe for “Rock Candy Rice Cakes,” and I just won my third straight battle at the Vermilion Gym with Magikarp in my lineup.

But more importantly, earlier today, I stopped by Mt. Moon and stumbled across something remarkable: a Moonstone. As soon as I picked it up, it seemed to hum faintly in my hand, like it was alive. I tucked it safely into my pack, but even now, I can feel its faint warmth.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and sharing a basket of Poké Puffs when this guy walks in—a cool, scruffy Ace Trainer named Milo. He’s carrying a bottle of Soda Pop and wearing a slightly rumpled Team Rocket hoodie, which is either ironic or incredibly bold. He’s got that charming, disheveled look that you can’t quite trust.

At first, he’s just passing by, but then he stops and glances at us. “You wouldn’t happen to be Ash Ketchum’s crew, would you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” I reply casually, “Never heard of him.”
“You sure? You’ve got that whole underdog vibe,” he presses.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I shrug.
“But Ash wouldn’t hang out in a dive like this,” he teases.
“Oh, yes he would,” Brock says, deadpan, not missing a beat.

Then it hits me—Milo was in the tournament Ash and I just watched in Celadon. “Wait—you were in that match against Erika’s gym team last week, weren’t you? Congrats on your big win!”
“Thanks for bringing that up,” Milo says dryly, a faint blush rising.
“We lost. Her Bellossom wiped us out—critical hits, all day. Total bad luck.”
“Bad luck,” Brock chuckles. “That’s one way to put it.”

Milo looks a little deflated, so I motion for him to take a seat. He slides in beside Brock, who offers him a cheerful nod. “Milo,” he says.
“I KNOW,” Brock says slyly. We’ve talked about him before—Brock thinks his battle strategy is solid, but his PokéFashion? Not so much.

“Do you believe in luck?” Milo asks suddenly, looking at both of us.
“Absolutely,” I reply, sitting up. “I mean, how else do you explain Magikarp getting a win? I always carry a lucky Moonstone with me—it’s way more reliable than, you know, strategy or training.”

“You have it on you now?” he asks, curious.
“Always,” I say, pulling it out of my pack and holding it up. The light catches the faint, shimmering surface.
“Does it really work?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, Magikarp won, didn’t it?” I joke, tucking it back in my bag. “Though I guess I’m living proof that luck is, uh, inconsistent.”

“Brock’s into luck, too,” I add, gesturing toward him.
“All breeders are superstitious,” Brock declares solemnly. “Back home, my sisters used to throw Clefairy dolls into the cave by Mt. Moon to ensure a good egg hatch.”
Milo laughs out loud, nearly choking on his Soda Pop. “And it worked, huh?” he says, smirking as he clinks his glass with Brock’s.
“We have a saying,” Brock adds with a knowing smile, “It’s better to have a lucky Magikarp than a perfect Gyarados.”

Just as Milo nods thoughtfully, agreeing with this ancient wisdom, Ash bursts through the doors, slightly out of breath. “You’ll never believe what Pikachu just did,” he announces. Typical Ash—always the center of the story.

(After T.S. Eliot)

Beneath the hum of fluorescent skies,
They shuffle, cart to cart, aisle to aisle.
A thousand faces, mirrored back,
Each one a ghost, reflected hollow.
What will you buy to fill the silence?
(A voice whispers: "Nothing is enough.")

Steel gods stand still, their logos glowing,
Burning bright in the temple of choice.
The Priest of Bargains chants his rite:
“More is more;
The less you think, the more you are.”
The congregation sways in time
To the click, the swipe, the rhythm of buy.

I saw them in the glass towers,
Stacking clouds in pixel rows,
Selling futures in digital dust—
A feast of shadows, a banquet of air.
They thought it freedom,
But the weight of their crowns
Bent their heads toward the ground.

I walked along the branded river,
Its banks paved in golden plastic.
I saw the hikers, shrouded in fleece,
Not climbing, but posing—
Fingers stretched,
A frame for the fall of the world.
Their path led nowhere,
A circle traced on ground too worn
To remember its roots.

Here, the gods are silent.
Their mouths are full of coins,
Their altars heavy with the weight of want.
"Consume!" they say,
"For the soul is light—when sold in pieces."
The hymn rises, a fractured tune,
A melody of scraps and borrowed notes.

What is left of the self,
When all it knows is what it’s told?
When shadows flicker on the wall,
Do you dare to turn and see the flame?

Shall I tell you what lies beyond the feast?
A table overturned, the light of a single match.
The ashes of altars rise like morning fog,
The faint hum of forgotten roots,
The river singing its own name.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins:
The silence of the forest,
The cold of unbranded stone,
The self, a whisper, unbought, unknown.

Behold the altar, black as night,
Where liberty burns in the Devil’s light.
The gold-flecked smoke ascends the skies,
While freedoms drown in gilded lies.

The priest of profit lifts his hand,
“Come, kneel before the branded land!
Your worth is priced, your soul is weighed,
By what you’ve bought, and what you’ve paid.”

O hollow mass, whose hymns are sung,
By plastic tongues on iron lungs.
They chant of deals, of wealth divine,
While shadows stretch from neon shrines.

See how the cities crumble slow,
As towers rise where rivers flow.
The lambs consume; the wolves grow fat,
And grind the earth to dust for that.

No revolution stirs this crowd,
Their thoughts are trapped, their voices loud—
But only loud with empty cheer,
A choir of sheep, both deaf and near.

The sky once rang with sacred cries,
Now drones with ads and pixel lies.
What Blake called “mills” now churn unseen,
They harvest dreams through glowing screens.

And here we stand, our hearts resigned,
Our minds enslaved, our wills confined.
For each new gadget, sale, or spree,
We trade the truth for apathy.

Yet in the embers, still remains,
A seed of hope amid the chains.
For irony is sharp as steel,
And truth, when seen, begins to heal.

What if this madness masks a jest?
A riddle placed for us to test?
The path is clear—tear down the veil,
Let wolves no longer feast on sale.

Rise up, ye lions, claim the earth!
Let justice flame, let life rebirth!
No God shall save what we must mend,
No freedom comes we do not defend.

What happened to you?—the Question hums—
A truth that aches to hear—
The scars you bear, the weight you hold,
Deserve both care and fear.

A thorn once struck—a tender bloom—
And tore what none should mar.
You fled, a wolf without your cloak,
Still learning what you are.

The shadows twist, the pain feels vast,
The world a cruel refrain—
But wolves don’t cower from the night;
They rise, despite the pain.

Yes, harm was done—acknowledge this,
And mourn what you have lost.
But strength is not in what we keep;
It’s in the paths we cross.

The forest whispers secrets still,
Its roots run deep and wide.
Your howl need not be filled with rage—
It’s power, redefined.

No hill will answer, nor the stone,
No breeze will bear your blame.
But healing waits, and scars will fade,
If you will speak your name.

The monsters, real or shadows made,
Hold power while you flee.
Turn, wolf, and face the life ahead—
It’s yours, and always free.

Rise up, O wolf, and claim your place—
No shame in what you’ve been.
The scars you bear are marks of grace,
And proof of strength within.

Hush, little bird, though your cries ring true,
The weight of what’s coming hangs over you.
You speak of a sky too heavy to hold,
Of a world too weary, of lives grown cold.

Yes, rivers fade and forests fall,
And humankind, blind, heeds no call.
Each thread they pull, each fire they light,
Tugs closer the end of their fleeting might.

But little bird, lift your weary eyes—
There’s beauty still where ruin lies.
The earth will heal when the noise is done,
When silence blooms under a gentler sun.

Fields will rise where the towers stood,
Roots will drink what was spilt as blood.
The seas will churn, the storms will sing,
And life will burst in the heart of spring.

Hush, little bird, there’s grace in the end,
A cycle no hand can break or bend.
For nature waits with patient might,
To cradle the dark and birth the light.

So let them falter, let them fall,
Their echoes faint, their shadows small.
A better world, post-human reign,
Awaits in the wake of their fleeting pain.

Sing not of doom, but what’s to be,
A quiet earth, reborn, set free.
Hush, little bird, your fears may rest—
The world will thrive, in time, refreshed.

A song I am working on:

Intro
(Instrumental)

Verse 1
A polished lens, bending light,

Through echoes lost in shadowed sight.

Fragile loops that give, forsake,

Patterns form, then gently break.

It’s what we give, it’s what we make.

Chorus
Through the prism, we collide,

Colors bleed and intertwine.

A give, a get, we seek within,

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Verse 2
Ripples chase a tattered thread,

Binding lives—the seen, the dead.

We burn to heal, we give to claim,

In mirrored glass, it’s all the same.

We give, we get; we play the game.

Chorus
Through the prism, we collide,

Colors bleed and intertwine.

A give, a get, we seek within,

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

Instrumental Break
(Instrumental section with subtle melodic elements building tension.)

Bridge
Fractured hues and shifting tides,

Truth and beauty coincide.

What we give, what we get—

Is your love a game, or is it regret?

Refrain
What we give, what we get,
Lost in moments we forget.
A fragile spark, a fleeting flame,
In mirrored glass, it’s all the same.

Outro
Through the prism, time unwinds,

Shattered light, redefined.

A give, a get, a fleeting sin—

Where do I end? Where do you begin?

I rest.
To not wake.