Hades left, but no one cried,
The bar stayed open, life complied.
Another drink, another night,
The same old faces, the same dim light.

The jukebox dead, the neon low,
The bartender poured, the TV glowed.
Sportsball flickered, some team scored,
Nobody cheered, nobody roared.

A truck pulled in, a truck pulled out,
Engines growled, tires turned about.
The gas pumps clicked, the motel keys jingled,
The air grew cold, and collars mingled.

Nobody asked, “Where did he go?”
Nobody cared, or didn’t show.
They raised their glasses, tipped their hats,
The world moved on, just like that.

The sticky floors still held their own,
The fading lights still cast their tone.
The doors swung shut, the wind went quiet,
Routine returned, a steady diet.

In Nowheretown, it’s always been
A place of ends, a place of when.
Hades gone? It’s just one more,
Life shuffles on, same as before.

She walks with grace, a quiet tide,
No need for doors; they open wide.
Her presence felt before she's seen,
A shadow cast, a space between.

Her hair a crown of chaos worn,
A tapestry of life forlorn.
Her alabaster skin aglow,
A canvas pale, the moonlight's throw.

Her voice is soft, a tender hum,
A song that calls, “Your time has come.”
Yet in her gaze, no cruel decree,
Just quiet truth and certainty.

Her steps are light, her path aligned,
No chains to bind, no wrath confined.
A necklace swings, an ankh, a key,
Unlocking what is meant to be.

She doesn't judge, she doesn't scorn,
She greets the weary, scarred, and worn.
No need for malice, force, or fire,
For all will answer her desire.

She whispers hope to those who weep,
A promise made, “Forever sleep.”
For in her arms, there lies release,
A final breath, a quiet peace.

Yet in her wake, some still resist,
Clutching life with trembling fist.
But even they will one day learn,
All roads will lead to her return.

Death is not the end they fear,
But a companion, always near.
With gentle hand, she clears the way,
And guides the lost to night from day.

Forgotten map, a name unworn,
A fleeting place where dreams are born,
Only to falter, thin and pale,
A shadow lost beyond the trail.

A strip of glass, of neon dust,
Where hope once flourished into rust.
The gas pumps hum, the motels sigh,
As endless highways pass them by.

The wind speaks low, a mournful tune,
Of fleeting stars and fading moons.
The people linger, tied by thread,
To ghosts of lives they might have led.

The young depart, their chances thin,
The old remain, their worlds within.
A landlocked isle, a sinking ship,
Where time forgets its iron grip.

Yet in the dark, the lights still gleam,
A flicker born of some lost dream.
The Last Call stands, a fragile throne,
Where silence drinks, and souls atone.

Hades walked its sticky floor,
His shadows etched on every door.
A king reduced, a man unwound,
The echo of this nowhere town.

And when he left, the air grew still,
As if the town had lost its will.
Yet Nowheretown, in brittle might,
Persists within the endless night.

No finish line, no final breath,
It simply waits—a quieter death.
A place for those who can’t move on,
A whisper of the world long gone.

I was a king of feral dogs,
Teeth bared, a crown of scars.
I carved my throne in crimson tides,
But the echoes of my reign still mar.

In Nowheretown, a purgatory plain,
I lingered where the restless wane.
A crumbling strip, a dying breath,
This sanctuary—a slower death.

The Last Call clung to brittle glass,
A temple for the lives that pass.
Sticky floors, the dimmest light,
A shrine to shadows in the night.

And I, its keeper, silent stone,
The weight of all my sins my own.
I drank to drown the barking pack,
But the ghosts of harm still pulled me back.

She came in silk, in cold November,
A porcelain face I’d always remember.
Her ankh swung low, her steps were light,
And yet, she carried endless night.

“It’s time to go,” she said to me,
“You’ve paid enough; now come and see.
Where we go, your glass won’t dry,
And the weight you bear, we’ll leave behind.”

I nodded slow, no words to say,
For what is left when debts won’t pay?
Not perfect, no, but I did my best,
And to retire—to do no harm—was rest.

In fading glass and failing light,
I left the town to its quiet plight.
Not as a king, nor as a man,
But as a shadow who simply ran.

Through her embrace, the end began,
Not absolution, but a plan.
To do no harm, for good’s in vain—
To leave behind the beast, the chain.

And as the November winds do howl,
I fade into the eternal prowl.
A feral dog, at last set free,
From the ghosts of harm and memory.

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.