"wastelands" poems
Inches below the surface, I can feel the sun just ahead, threating my lost consciousness and tearing my body apart.
The incandescent light pierces the ground, the mountains scream fire upon the sky, crackles in the ground appear beneath my feet. What a pitiful anxiety made of sand!
My body stretches, incoming dehydration, thirst and isolation; motherly desert, fatherly wastelands...
Let me burn down to ashes and blow me to the wind.
Make me feel uncomfortable and let me disappear in peace.
I can feel the drought claiming my pain, gathering the dust that used to be my skin and remain in solitude, just like a snail then I find myself stuck in the nonchalant rage of the day.
There is nothing alive, there is just an infinite ruin of land, dead soil and dying lives turn into stone by act of time.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
words without warmth
are like the dry wind
that has lost its water
over the high cliffs of life
they cannot water a wilting soul
but will only take away
the little life left
and leave it collapsed
"thank you"s are tired
over worked, over used
only an ASCII string, no more
"i’m sorry"s stare in the face
of the expectant mind
expressionless
bring words back from the wastelands
give them the life they’ve lost
make them carry between their bits
the warm care of a human for another
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:00 AM UTC
Sleep, sleep,
still your breath
and just sleep.
Sleep through
the drum-circle,
the neighbour's garden,
sleep through
the fever,
the sentence,
and the eventual pardon.
Sleep, sleep,
blot your eyes
and just sleep.
Sleep through
her hands touching,
the solemn submit;
sleep through
the wastelands,
the war-zones,
and sleep with the deficit.
Sleep, sleep,
in the castle keep, sleep.
Sleep for the potions,
the poisons,
the crimes you commit.
Too steep is the gangway
to an easier life,
too far is the leap
and too impossible, the wife.
Sleep, sleep,
still your mind
and just sleep.
Keep to
the sidelines,
with intellect deep;
fall to sleep
in the limelight
of your day,
for you have
earned your rest,
you have found your way.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Wastelands of dry parched nothingness
Forced pursuit of pale mirages filled with life
Wavering brinks of relief in the scorching heat
Washed away life of golden liquid
Dehydrated stumbles in the dreaming darkness
Faded taste of malicious lies
Water in feverous dreams
Dried up mouth in waking sleep
cc071211
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
Streams and some remains,
Nothing soars around this vessel,
it feels just like blood stains;
reality is just a sick game.
Invisible particles of light
that reach their critical mass;
and suddenly explode outside.
(…and suddenly burst in my mind.)
Wander across barren wastelands,
Drifting throughout burning planets.
Come to me whatever you do,
Wherever you are, come with me.
I can see through an empty soul,
carving the black pits that singe inside;
blending the coldness of your foreign heart,
your trust in me can be my demise.
Stones raining from below,
darkness surrounds my scars;
the glasses of this artificial frigate are not bullet proof.
(…the windows of my ship are not ice-static proof.)
And remain in silence,
and forever believing,
that my love is against you
and my hate is loving you.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
The sun rose on me
On the African Continent
On the north west territory
Where beauty meets torment
Dry unforgiving harsh land
Where the sun is King in its mighty light
Bathed by an ocean of shifting sand
Offering an infinite burning sight
Relentless wind, hot and strong
Constantly blowing with a hollow sound
Shaping the Desert's callous character
Invisible merciless powerful master
A Boundless sky, vast & deeply blue
Witness the retched souls & the subdued
Through thirsty lips whispering mercy too
Drinking from a tenacious source of fortitude
The horizon promises much hardship
Scorching heat & tests of faith
The element's forceful grip
til you face your very own wraith
Tarfaya & Smara, my waking world
Desolate wastelands where silence thrives
Sandstorms are born here to whirl & twirl
Existence suspended in time, engulfing all lives
I miss the stars filled sky, in the cold of night
Promises of Edens amongst enduring times
Justifying every pains to be worth a fight
Forging dreams in the night's paradigm
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
We treat our hearts like fighters,
12 rounds trapped in the fear cage inside.
Pride be our fuel, anger our lighters,
Our souls wastelands with nowhere to hide.
Ego hijacks our common sense,
Making shallow love our prize.
Emoting makes our minds go tense,
Until help screams out from our eyes.
The leaps and bounds we **** ourselves for,
Isn't enough to keep our hearts at bay.
Nothing will ever even the score,
There are no words they can simply say.
So why do we put ourselves through hell?
Why can't we just swallow our pride?
Because love is a feeling they just want to sell,
And in debt there's no place to hide.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands
and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust
his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,
to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,
sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something
for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care
"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -
then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;
"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"
alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound
["Hey hey talk to I -"]
["If there's pain is there gain -"]
["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]
#FLASH!#
the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -
serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.
AJ
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
The clouds separated the Sun from my life for too long
I wondered if it even existed
And if it existed
Would it know I existed?
It's warm companionship eluded me
I was frozen in the wastelands
I donned my armor of ice
And embraced all that is frigid and bleak
My feet turned into rockets as flowers bloomed all around me
I rode headfirst into the sky on a jet of pure nature
I cut through the friction in the air
And exploded through the clouds
The Sun's disorienting light loved me
Without vision I flew to it's warmth
When I reached the Sun I kissed it on the mouth
and we danced around the galaxy
And the Sun radiated our love to every living creature in the universe
But the Sun abandoned me out in space
The Sun returned to giving life to all
And I am but one
I just thought that maybe I could help it give life
Because at one point I was a star
Now I'm just dust
Is it so selfish to want it's power for myself?
I've been floating in darkness for a while
And I feel very Alien: Isolation right now
But this is no game
And Sigourney Weaver couldn't fight my monsters
Game over, man
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
Our earth is turning from green to gray,
Just because it can't say,
"Stop vulgarly harming me
Or you will soon see
Barren wastelands and dried seas."
Nature's beauty is fast eroding,
'Cause we are still enjoying.
Wise humans, don't you see,
We'll soon be left without a tree.
Be a little eco-friendly,
And treat nature more gently.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
"i know it's cliche but-"
your throat is a graveyard spitting up coffee grounds and
used tissues / toilet paper / whatever you can get your hands on
(everything you own is covered in blood.
this is normal)
vulnerability turned burial shroud / tent / house
hotels arent wastelands for you to learn to hate yourself with
(*"i know, i know
not everything is a burial ground, etc"*)
glittery and sick and tired
[ and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning ]
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.
my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside
the wastelands are beautiful
as you gawk
at the red
sun
a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein
in a mind shaft.
with a bad back
and no front.
but a lasting gasp....
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
There's a storm coming.
Within hours, its arrival will go unannounced
But the few who are destined for the change
Can feel it brewing just under the surface
Between the quiet conversations
A constant hum, a reminder of the forgotten
Continues to pulse through the veins
Silence, floating above the metropolis
Ready to blanket the movement in a suffocating still
The forces of the unknown act swiftly, careful in its oblivion
Truth be told, there is some quality to having something to hold on to.
Something to tether you back to reality,
It gives you assurance that this life is more than just a simulation
Hope of the possibility to slowly pass through the barren wastelands of this
Technological underdevelopment.
The world has seemingly lost its value
Let the storm wipe out what is left of this society.
The few who were meant to be will remain.
I'm ready for the shift for nothing to be the same.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
There's a place between society and the wild
Where aimless bodies are piled
We call it the Wastelands
All creatures die of old age
Or hunger inside this cage
The deer are never hit by cars
For they never travel that far
The Wastelands use fear
That's what keeps them here
The Wastelands are a scary place
It's horrifying how nothing happens
It becomes too much to face
So we hide under satin
To provide comfortable resting
And avoid Wastelands testing
The Wastelands are a barren environment
Solitary coyotes learn from the cacti
Who soak up meager moisture
And become prickly to protect it
Never knowing if nourishment was near
They grew prickly because of their fear
We inhabit the Wastelands
We're trapped here
Where the walls of the city
Seem to mirror
The walls of the wilderness
So it's here we build our nest
But surviving is a constant test
Because we have useless hands
Here in the Wastelands
Wastelands
Interaction
Is reaction
Create a faction
And never leave
Even if love cleaves
It lies behind ramparts of containment
And the fear of society's arraignment
Even if peace calls
It stays behind walls
Of trees hiding predators
That keep us embedded here
So we ***** barriers to protect us
From the barriers surrounding us
We find our connections through hatred
And build teams around it
We made foolish deals with Satan
This is what we're amounted
Scavengers from both worlds encroach the Wastelands
Journalists and artists mine our souls
Vultures mine our flesh like gold
Taking what they need and going home
Our rabid mouths begin to show foam
From the frustration of loss
But inactivity is our cross
While we watch carrion feeders
Carry on eating
Our friends
Until we turn and look away
Knowing that'll be us one day
Because in the Wastelands
Friends are just creatures who are near
There are no animals to hold dear
We're afraid to lend an ear
When Wastelands use fear
The Wastelands are hell
Dry river beds tell of a time
When the rain fell
But now we're plagued by drought
You can tell by looking at the trout
They flop on the ground
Wondering where to wander for water
The cacti remain still
It's the Wastelands will
In the Wastelands we wait to die
Although we really want to fly
We're just afraid of heights
Which impedes our sight
Where we can't view over our own barricades
It's fear that prohibits our ability to elevate
And we see that the order is too tall
Back into the Wastelands we fall
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
"Sit down boy, you're tired and you must sleep"
The voice said to me as I walked the city street
Fuzzy steps taken to a bench I saw over yonder
Sleepily wandering, the streetlights I ponder
Passive disorientation, I'm lost it would seem
Consciousness becomes a trickle, as opposed to a stream
Dragging myself over shards of glass, paralysed and sleeping
A shadow 'neath the moonlight seems to be steadily creeping
Isolated in this park in the darkness on a sigma plateau
Dextromethorphan hallucinations are a spectacular show
I'm indifferent to the stranger, drowsy as he appears
Isolated in the nighttime winds, apathetic to his tears
Uncoordinated my head falling he takes a seat softly
Dissociative disorder makes me seem awfully frosty
Speaking of lands where the populace truly is free
Speaking unintelligible words, indirectly to me
The intrinsic disconnect of this generation scorned
As the sun rises in the sky, glittered clouds adorned
My head lulls lackadaisically, I'm feeling unwell
But my stomach is eased when I think of sweet Maybelle
[Hers is a Nabokovian tale of passion in proto-dystopian wastelands
The first time we kissed, I held her soft head tenderly in my hands
The serenade of rain pitter-patter on the ground, like her feet when she's near
and hearing her name is as cathartic as those old jazz records I hold so dear
But, oh my pretty Belle, your age is a concern to me (and the eyes of the law)
So to forget your sweet face, I pop pills neglectfully, passing out on the floor]
Lifting head slowly from the rough ground dampened
Four years passed and I'm wondering what happened
Fuzzy headed blues, clear my mind with OJ and ******
Walking fast to her house, cannot wait to see her
A rap-tap on the door with thoughts of romantic enumerations
What she said and what I saw defied every one of my expectations
My innocent Belle, with her cheeks rosy red,
looks me in the eyes, and wishes I was dead
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
Baron wastelands sound the trumpet in the midst of the ghetto, where sobriety gathers in connected ambivalence.
Acknowledge the animism within naturopathic spirituality. I urge you to have explicit *********** with unfamiliar prostitutions, whilst political prowess ingests her toxicities in the guise of oratory genius.
The expulsion of vanity is haunting in its reverence.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
Where to find the words?
When all the wells
Have run dry,
My inspiration
No longer
Blooming
Out of the dark corners
Of my addled mind,
The fountains
That yielded
All my sentiments,
Have translated
Into muted syllables
That no longer flow,
As if my need
Has been quelled,
Yet I am more parched
Than desert dunes,
Cold barren wastelands;
And there is no mirage
To even hold me over
Until the next rainfall...
APAD14 - 001 © okpoet
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
I would scale the highest
most decrepit radio towers in the world
the rusted metal crumbling against my feet
Risking electrocution and the constant threat of falling
as I rewire the ancient spiderweb of cabling
so I can hear even the faintest transmission of your voice
I'll clutch a stained and faded photograph of us
The only remainder after most everything digital
dies out in flickers of dormant transistors and dissipated binary
I'll protect it from acidic rain and the grit of persistent dust storms
So little resources left in a continent of incinerated cities
yet this picture of you and I is all I will need to keep moving
When I finally find you
I will fight against all impossible odds and potential ends
I'll walk entire burnt out highways with you just to make one last stand
I will carry you across these deserted wastelands and returning forests
To show that even after the bombs drop
My love belongs to you
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
the world is a machine built of scorpions and wolves, praying for sleep and
soft lullabies. the wheels and knobs turn endlessly, recklessly howling at the
stars for it's desirable solace, like ghosts stuck on earth preying on others for
revenge for being sentient puppets tangled in the strings, thrashing in their
thoughts, stuck in a everlasting cycle carrying around burdens like a courier
through dense forests and vast wastelands, burning bridges and bibles and
throwing gasoline upon the architectures built up and setting them on fire
but i feel hands of fear at my ankles, pulling me into the restless ocean
with a pulsating ache, wolves howl from the insides of my barren stomach
and making them be quiet is difficult, if duct tape worked, it would help
these knives for fingers cut through anything, but it can't cut through you
- kra
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
Bright lights shine with thoughts forced to conceive
Manipulation of the mind hangs from a titanium thread
For it is what is seen that delivers into the mind
And struggles our thoughts into fictitious wastelands
Politicians smiling with promises promised to keep
Wearing full-body suits made of wealthy propaganda
Lies and perjury residing under the carefully groomed jacket
Wet blades dripping with blood tucked away into the inside pocket
The illusion of the appearance shall enmesh the mind
And continue on to beguile the vapid thoughts
The hearty see leadership while the blind smell autocracy
As the sense of smell is not yet controlled by propaganda
But soon it shall.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
How could I forget,
for even a breath?
Slowly it slips
away into spaces
hidden in me
and I forget that it is there.
Watching over me.
Waiting on me.
To take it back into my lungs.
Into my eyes.
Into my touch.
Waiting for me
to expel it in every way
that I experience my daze.
This Universal Love...
My soul, it bathes in this
and yet,
my feet will step,
my body will move,
and my mind forgets.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵...
I want to remember
all of those moments
when love was what carried me
over mountainous hurts;
through wastelands of self-hate -
self destructive tendencies
were buried by this
ever-knowing love.
And that is what brought me
this far.
That is why I've conquered
my war.
𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲 is why I know in
my heart.
That everything is beautiful,
𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴.
Universal Love
𝘐𝘚 existence.
And all parts
of my resistance
were so I could learn
of Love's persistence.
So,
May we never disregard the beauty,
simply because
our minds feels threatened.
May we see past the veils
that keep us guessing.
And may we remember:
We can find perfection
only in the definitive acceptance
of all that is,
𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨.
▪︎ micalight ▪︎
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
Zero One and modern blight
Travel at the speed of light.
We wondered on the Wandering Jew,
Or, in lieu,
Orthon, Urian or Lilitu.
We trepanned our empty skulls,
Searched our humours,
Were touched by Rulers!
Now troubling symptoms of want and need,
Have blighted growth of yesterseed.
Patient Zero left no lead.
East fingered West
(and vice versa)
Was Ireland really the cause of cholera?
Did Blacks languish in Tuskegee squalor?
We christened Mary, but drank the water.
Fracked Incubus and Succubus
From son and daughter.
Patient Zero left the slaughter.
We deprived women of their tea
To cure wandering womb hysteriae.
Deviances and leaking lesions
Were headwaters of women's *****
Patient Zero has no season.
The barber sensed it might be smell,
So our widened streets became a sulfurous hell.
And wastelands swelled
Where curled cats dwelled.
(no talk of Michelangelo)
II
Our children's blight has a techno name,
Like the rose, IT smells the same.
With zero tolerance I lay blame
On screens and phones and video games.
The world wide box stores flipped their lids,
Touching all who crawl the social grids;
From the base of Mammon's pyramid.
Now Jake believes he's a gangsta dude
Since posting whatever on You Tube.
Nothing to gain, nothing to lose:
No services rendered but expects what's due.
Inflated egos are a system symptom,
Clearing firewalls, reaching children.
Patient Zero is no phantom.
There is no tale of rat or flea
As cause of lost immunity.
There is no open sore to fester,
The Selfie is the X-ray picture.
Patient Zero is so much quicker.
In our gel of techno bliss,
On our elliptic petrie dish,
Bathed in more than we could wish,
Patient Zero will finish,
And with that whimper
All vanish.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
(Is there an emotion for mystical? I suppose it would be to be mystified. Perhaps awe is the word I am looking for. I was in awe at the sight of him! I was beyond mystified!)
It started in the Yellow Wastelands. Where life went to die. As life dies there, they become a part of the Yellow Wasteland adding to his spread and growth becoming a sort of crystalline lattice. All go willingly to the crystalline whisper. The whisper in recent theory emanates from the shining yellow crystals that grow among the Yellow Wasteland like blue bonnets in the Texas spring. Once the Whisper is heard the victim willingly partakes in what we call The March. The March is a mindless saunter to The Yellow Wasteland where upon arrival they lay in the yellow dirt and slowly begin crystalizing. We have tried stopping The March. But have been unsuccessful for many years. During the state of the march the victim gains a strange, extraordinary ability to control others as they see fit. If one or a group of people, try and prevent the march they will be controlled by the whisper to put the victim back on track. The final equation that we cannot solve is why one hears the whisper. There seems to be no pattern whatsoever.
On this day my daughter heard the whisper. We walked with her for hours on end. My wife and son followed shortly behind whilst I walked beside her talking about memories and music. My son then caught up and started to play his lute. He played song after song and sang beautiful lyrics that they wrote together. My wife would then catch up to fix our daughters hair and clean her face as we walked and walked toward The Yellow Wasteland. There were times where we would walk all together in a line and pray and pray.
Over the Wolf's crossing trail was a hill. The hill was now called.
" The Last Ascend." The Yellow Wasteland can be seen below. We started the ascend up the last ascend. Tears flooded all our eyes as we were powerless to stop The March.
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 2:13 PM UTC