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Dead Sep 17
The skies have rendered everything a pale grey.
Not used to our own thoughts, the screams still ring in our ears.
We are all wandering under the ash rain, eyes low.
Nothing heard, nothing said.
There’s not much of us left, not much of anything.
After this agony, where will we go?

When these wounds heal, and the skies finally clear.

All we will have is a wasteland.
-gabi p- Jun 22
my grasp on her glass of water clanks and
      clatters like shackles,
resonates savagely for miles and miles.
until it reaches my mirror and becomes
      too red to hear;
i hadn't realized the water had reached my eyes
i couldn't know that it was so near.

saw this in the news, my darling, thought
      you might be interested -
but all the sounds from my window are muffled
by the ringing inside my ears.
hope they reach you well, i hope that you
      are well. can't check for myself.

(the dried tubers have always been enough so i never
ever asked for violets)

Time came back once again, daughter,
he left a red smudge on your chair's left arm.
it catches on my hair as I fling
      arms and legs over stained upholstery;
eyes outstretched to the ceiling (an offering:
      to whichever gods are still left.)

i have seen this before as you will see it
       again, I say, he never misses the mark.
and the beat will still remain the same
       dumdu mdum du dum- no,
you shouldn't dance along, how can you even hear it?
darling, why is Your shadow
going around in circles?
i don't even know what this is, enjoy?
Earth so lush and green
Until man comes, careless we
Bring forth a wasteland
Words' Worth Apr 26
I knew that irksome emotion
Had emptied the vessel of devotion
They did want me as captain or King
I wanted them three times more than being ordinary
That's the ardor I had once
I was deceived twice and let the matter be once

What grew jarring was the stuttering
When I lost my spirit
Bit by bit my heart grew terse and blithe
Little did my confidence help me keep my wits
I went through the works of Emerson and Whitman
I immersed myself in the light of wine
I lost sight of the darkness of time

I know I married a poet
When I see through their will
The stretch of time washes through thine eye
None had ever scared him only my wish
T'was the wind dimming that saw me sinking
As vision of land and seething water
That brought the emptiness in my soulless win
"And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good."- John Steinbeck
lua Feb 1
Morning comes, the world is set on fire
Our state is quite dire
But that doesn't stop me
From picking up a flower
A flower that bloomed in the spring
Alone, at a wasteland
The flower of the wasteland

Evening comes, the flames have died down
There are ashes on the ground
Not a single sound
But the light is still here
Hope never disappeared
Even here
In this wasteland
In this wasteland
a song by me
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
lua Sep 2019
All the acrid smoke
And dust of the world
Fills my lungs
Burning
Burning like a fire
I can taste the sulfur on my tongue
And feel the charcoal sticking to my fingertips
I look around
And all I see is a wasteland.
Colm Aug 2019
The bitter road
With walking feet and identical pace

     Fear not

For they are all just shadows underneath
Just ghosts beneath the turquoise ice

     Quiet as can be

And you will not fall
You will not falter

As you have colder blood within your veins
Than in every surreal arctic peace
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNeLUngb-Xg
James Rowley Jul 2019
I:
I stopped for breath;
It was earthy, the soil
Was putrid to the touch:
Death oozed out of the cracks
Of the river, bubbling unnaturally.
Life was naught where I roamed.
Squeezing the last drops out of the bottle,
My cracked lips groaned, the silence strangled my memory
Only the weak were erased that day.
Four years ago I think
She ruled herself with a spring in her step
Before the sludge, the acid sludge
Wiped her dreams away
And ushered in the sun of winter
To never see summer again.

II:
Speckled with dust I carried onward;
The terrain flashed with familiarity
As I stepped into the darkness of her home
If you can even call it that anymore;
Her smile is a deep crimson, the blood of the many
Line her barren wasteland. Sometimes I face the winds
Instead of hiding; but they bring those hollow, pale spirits
Ever closer. They only stop
To torment; their whispers perfectly pierce
And destroy the hope I once had.

III:
They tell me sweet nothings and extend their hands of absence;
I cower in the darkness to stop their screams.
The scimitar of radiant light cuts through the night
As I prepare to face the wasteland again.

Swallows, sloes and willows; gone are the days where
They lined the earth and made it smell whole again.
Now we lay motionless in dreams long lost
Lonesome as I was, the ghosts haunt where I once were.

IIII:
The path in front of me winds endlessly;
Shattered and incomplete, it beckons me
To wherever it decides to take me.
For I am naught in the wasteland;
I will wait for her to come back
But the sands of time are not on my side.
Feedback would be appreciated
Over Jul 2019
Here in the wasteland
Swarming
Cold
Gazed with locked doors
The shadows of your frail body
Scared me
Imminent contagion
The land opened its mouth
To swallow the town
I would've felt bad for the mayor
If he had treated us with an ounce of respect
Our dry throats singing broken tones
Like a detuned string
Air comes out foul and distorted
The hymns were sang and
The souls ripe with hope
Danced
Instinctive motion
Of the universe
Laughed
My gaze was extinguished
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