As I lay, the world races. On a path of defeat, a path finite. A line that will cease, grace abolished.
Dedicated, true, faithful: attributes no longer offered.
Her inhabitants welcome: worn, faded, abused, removed, lost. Fire burns, heat ever growing, destruction eminent.
Hate fuelled, discontent abundant, connection severed. Old ways are forgotten, sustenance elusive.
Life lost, for the smallest of reasons. Lost in low regard. Precious yet not important. Sacred yet abandoned.
The time is now. Turn it over, watch spirit.
About the Creator
The Light Turns
It's Tuesday 7:13 a.m. A cold and clear November morning awaits Ray on his morning commute. Ray rubs his hands together in the front seat of his Subaru. He turns the air temperature up, but keeps the air on low until the air warms up. He looks at the backup camera screen and reverses the Subaru out of his driveway onto Trimble Road.
By John R. Godwina day ago in Fiction
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