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neth jones Apr 14
a sorry fist forward                                                          ­  
             and mortally i follow                          
coldly into the first dark flint of day                                            
              not my natural habitat                                                      
so quiet.. or near so
a vacancy for occasional clean                              
                             ­              isolated noises

 i pause         and pass a scan about
the hailing lack of conscious population                                 
                     ­                     all packed away
hauntings themselves in beds
- like some form of post apocalyptic storage -
they add a vague lended charge
 
nature is on a limited budget         this early                             
no birds yet                                   and no solar minting
a massive racoon      with only three legs      crosses my intended path
              in its mouth                    a gory wreckage                        

i steep to make balance
                         but my pores won't take it
                                                       i am sickened by the ballast
                                                         ­                                  of my breakfast

i hollow onward into these new conditions                            
still deriding what to be                                                    
     a tourist and an informer dud                                                     ­  
i have switched to the dayshift                                        
from off the spire                                  
of my regular hour                  
the evening routine

breathing is surprisingly ***** at this time
                                            a failing of settled pollution :                      
the public buildings and restaurants          
                                 are muggy in their overnight stale degassing
awaiting air currents and dispersal        

the first gulls of the morning                          
                                              emit a defeating siren
spearing through detritus                            
                            ­    they dispel the bells of purity
                                  
               somehow i've made my port of call
a struggling invertebrate
in this state i dispose my spirit                        
                                at­ the salted threshold
security staff and sanitation process                              
         between the sets of automatic doors

a workplace made alien          
   and adverse to me
purely by        
            the indecent hour
of day
neth jones Oct 2021
[gulls] summer
the morning gulls
morning gulls defeat me
an accuracy to the early hour
they spear
thorough amongst the detritus
dispelling the bells of cleanliness
in an urban morning
Kamila Aug 2021
Sometimes you change
And so does your mentality.
You ain't recognize your taste,
Unfollow pages, cause now they bring anxiety.

Sometimes you change
And not only location,
But also people that you place
Around yourself, it's called prioritization.

Sometimes you change
And ain't making same decision.
New choices you now make
Do set new course and clear your vision.
annh May 2020
the present
forever shifts

yet remains
constant

claiming and
re-claiming us

a sequence
of stillnesses

flux and
fixity

finite and
infinite
‘It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.’
- Henry Miller
The night fell swiftly, feeling heavy
darkly glowing, ghostly lit
The moon shone proudly, high and godly
bestowed with shine and silver tint

The Earth shifts coldly, colored boldly
across the world the seasons shift
The winds blow wild, their temper mild
as the last days, of November drift
Written at the end of November.
Surya Teja M Oct 2017
The joy is inexplicable
When the dawn is out to warm you
But, nothing gold can stay:
It turns into burning fire
And ***** your blood out of you.

Dancing in drizzling rain
Reminds you how beautiful you are
But, nothing gold can stay:
Hurricanes bring down big guns
And shoot you to dead in rain.

The wanton scenery
Is also nature's first gold-
The gold that can not stay.

I am the Nature
My gold turns into stone
It is your love that matters
I am bipolar, I am your lover
A lover who can't be always
The Nature's first Gold.
Tobias.
A handsome, broad-shouldered man with soft earth-brown eyes,  that lived in 18th century England, who then came to America with his mother and father plus his eight brothers.
He would die of fever at the age of 23.
After he died,  he did not move on to the afterlife, instead he was chosen by a group of elders called The Guard.
As a Guardian, he was tasked a keeper of human lives selected  by The Guards' standards as 'changers,' or humans that change the course of history.
Tobias rejected his forced calling and attempted to abandon his task.
The oldest of The Guard, Helten, a man thousands of years old (only looking 40), approached him and asked a simple question, "Why do you want to truly die?"
Tobias was silent,  until Helton added,
"There is a Shift after your changer."
Shifters, or Shifts,  are the enemies of the Guardians and their mission is to destroy all changers so that Shifts can take their place and change the world to their liking.
Tobias added gruffly,  "Which one?"
"Daniel."
Tobias' hand squeezed into a fist. He hated Daniel ever since the 1920's. He wanted a rematch since that idiot tried to **** his charge for a cigarette.
Tobias wanted to punch him.  Hard.
His eyes flashed crimson,  and his fists turned blue flame.
"Where is he?!" Daniel growled.
Helton smirked,
"Pennslyvania."
This is a teaser from a story I have been working on. Hope you like it!

— The End —