“I’ll tell a secret, something they don’t tell you in your temple.

The tower where the gods are mounted on,

They look down at us.

You know this?”

“I know this. We are under them for a reason, looking up.”

“They do not look down at us.

They envy us.”

“That is no secret. That is no truth.”

“It is.

With each lightening strike, they punish us for their envy.

Do you know why they envy us?”

“…

   …
        
      …
         ….No.”

“It is because we are mortal.

For any moment is our last.

Beauty is from our doom.”

        The other man does not respond. 

“Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed, Meaning springs from mortality.”

“Truly?”

“Indeed.

Remember this, boy.

The gods envy us.

Not the other way around.”

Once upon a time and a very good time it was, A moocow ambled down the old country lane, Sunlight dripped like honey on its hide, A simple scene, yet a tale to be told, Through the eyes of a nicens little boy.

Baby Tuckoo, with eyes wide as the sky, Gazed upon the moocow with wonder pure, The world unfurled in soft, vibrant hues, Each step a brushstroke on life's canvas.

The moocow’s gentle low, a soothing lullaby, A melody of days unburdened and free, Tuckoo’s laughter, a symphony of youth, Echoed through fields where dreams took flight.

In the dance of light and shadow they played, The moocow and the boy, in timeless embrace, Life’s first whispers etched in memory’s ink, Stories spun from threads of innocence.

A portrait painted with the heart’s own hand, Of a boy, a moocow, and a world so grand, Moments that breathe in the spaces between, The start of a journey, where the artist is seen.

Based on "A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man" by James Joyce

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

They aren’t watching.

It was a rainy day in May, and the dogs were barking at the door.

They aren’t watching.

It was a sunny day in June, and the tensions were high on the plateau.

They aren’t watching.

It was the first day of July, and they called.

Maybe they ARE watching, but THEY aren’t your problem anymore.

When I wake up, The other side of my bed is cold,

My stomach won't even rumble, The craving never gets old,

The cottage grieves in sorrow Corrupted by tainted mould.

I always restrain the temptation to run, You’ll never catch me begging for gold,

Solitary seeps through the bed frame, My body only craves somebody to hold.

Book: The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins.

the king is dead, long live the queen

long live the queen

long live the queen

long live the queen

the king is dead

the king is dead

the king is dead

long live the queen

who took the crown

long live the queen

who was the one who lived

long live the queen

who survived long enough

long live the queen

long live the queen

if only they knew

that she killed the king.

It was a quiet morning, the town covered over by with darkness and at ease in bed. Everyone asleep, the alarm clock yet to ring read 3 am. The moon on schedule, casted a hollow glow, the witching hour has began.

(Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury)

I am running.

I am running from the truth, For I cannot bear it.

I am running for my country, For I cannot save it.

I am running to my people, Or at least trying to.

I can’t run, I can’t do anything.

For my world is collapsing, And I cannot save it.

I am running from my tears, For it will drown me.

I am running, I am running,

I Cannot.. Stop.

Is there a way to recover from extinction?

Is there a way to recover? For my legs are tired from running.

I doubt there is a way to recover, So that is why I run.

And why my country must run for it’s life.

In the realm of literature, a tale unfolds, Of a young lad named Pip, whose story holds. "Great Expectations" is the name it bears, A masterpiece of Dickens, with characters that ensnare.

From the misty marshes, where Pip first meets, A convict named Magwitch, with secrets and feats. His life takes a turn, as fortunes are bestowed, An unexpected twist, on the path he rode.

Miss Havisham, a haunting figure of despair, Her decaying mansion, trapped in time's snare. Estella, her ward, a beauty so cold, Pip's heart captivated, a story to unfold.

Through London's streets, Pip seeks his fate, A gentleman he longs to be, a life to create. But wealth and status, a hollow disguise, As he learns that true worth lies in love's ties.

Joe Gargery, a loyal friend and fatherly guide, With a heart of gold, by Pip's side. Biddy, a kind soul, with wisdom to share, In her gentle presence, Pip finds solace and care.

The enigmatic lawyer, Jaggers, so shrewd, With secrets of his own, his power accrued. And Wemmick, his clerk, a fortress of cheer, With his "portable property" bringing joy near.

But it's Magwitch, the convict, who holds the key, To Pip's transformation, to set him free. A love that's selfless, a debt to repay, As Pip learns the true meaning of life's display.

In the end, "Great Expectations" teaches us all, That wealth and status can lead to a fall. But love, forgiveness, and finding one's place, Are the treasures that bring true grace.

There are so many ways it could have all turned out differently.

If we had no eyes and could not see. If you had a better family.

If we lived on a different planet. In a different time. If you told me you were mine.

If we looked different If you had better hair And friends that actually would care.

If you never just ignored the signs. If you gave me a sign back. If I never had that asthma attack.

If in one thousand years If we had no tears And we both had a beer And we laughed and cheered

So in the end I think

That if everything was different BUT us We would maybe Finally Kind of Be able To be together And have a drink.

——————————- Sometimes the people are right But it’s a wrong time. God. I say I am over him but I know one day it will finally be perfect

I believe in true love. So I will wait. I will wait forever Till it is the perfect time

“There was never an angry man who thought his anger was unjust.”** And who can judge the circumstances into which the man was thrust?

Are his motivations pure or are they filled with ill contempt? Does it matter if he’s young? Or if he’s old, is he exempt

From every social standard used to weigh man’s heart, bad or good? Will you be the arbiter? The executioner ‘neath the hood?

Fools don’t suffer fools to pass, so where are they to go? If a beast is cornered, scared, it will not just kowtow.

Play with bulls, you’ll get their horns. Play with fire, get burned, Is a bull at fault for harming? Should fire not be unconcerned?

If your actions spur another’s, are their actions then your fault? Keep your mouth shut, zip it closed, then throw the key into the vault.

Can it possibly be right to harm another in revenge? Must you part ways enemies, or can you agree to be friends?

Whose anger, then, is unjust? And who or what decides? Love can usually unify but hate always divides.

Bring your anger, bring your hate, and bring your judgements too, Gather up your emotions, as a King does his retinue.

Loose yourself or tighten up, does anybody care? Who gets good luck, who gets bad? Is life always to be unfair?

Justify your actions thus, the fault is never yours. For hate and loathing never count, wars are only wars.

I can hate and I can fight, and I get to be grim, A woman can, a man cannot; her but never him.

Is one side good, one side bad — a blank line to fill in? Stories can change drastically if told by the villain.

Peace or war, hatred or love, agitate or rejoice. We are only as good as our most abhorrent choice.

Coach yourself, be ‘good people,’ spread love, not hate, today. Be mindful of your words, thoughts, and the actions that you display.

Speak as friends to all you meet, even to nemeses, For if all loved their neighbors, there would exist NO ENEMIES.

** “The Ciphers of Muirwood” by Jeff Wheeler