The feral beings have their part with the moon.

All natures resides in its womb.

To be apart from the moon would be to be apart from the self.

Only the sane sit beneath the clouds.

The moon attaches to the wildest of hearts and shows its bearings in the sky.

It imprints its love in its light but all do not all do see.

Sometimes the shadow of a man does fall and then the moon searches for another.

It grabs hold of the reaching hand and echoes that soul to depthless below.

It begins it's mold. An awakening of sorts.

From the sliver of a slice to the rounding of it's bodice,

so too the journey of a life, of many lives.

Time spans and its work is complete. The sealed are unleashed.

The howling accompany its completion in celebration:

some in bleeding and others in love making.

Yet those who wonder are held dear.

When we last lose gaze then the moon shall we lose too.

It’s ironic that I had lost…my everything

It’s ironic that I had lost…my everything

That I would trade my everything just for something:

Something that’s pure scraps in light of…my golden everything.

For a consumption, I was whole and yet without it I was none.

Not empty. Still full but with a belly ache that even mom can’t soothe.

I poured out and ate my fill.

My veins dried out and pus remained.

A lifeless being yet alive in the dirt.

Ah but you’re confused. I was too.

For no clarity resides where my everything is not.

It takes a cracking to truly see what my life was soon to be;

A void fullness of empty something.

We stopped believing the world would end about 50 years back. However, a sigh, still escaped my lips. There's something about the turn of the century that gets me shivering. What would I know though? This is only my first.

The News is hard to avoid these days, peering into my mind without my permission. I need to get my implants upgraded...ad free software is so expensive. Although, this is not an ad, it certainly does feel like it. Unnecessary, forced information in my retina! The government be damned !

"Artificial sunlight gives us another year. Glory to the five Kingdoms of the satellite. President Chen announces that the fuel is sufficient to carry us through another 100 years. Climate control is at it's peek and we will continue to make progress. Soon we can have the snow without the cold promises the President. Fine things are coming to the Kingdoms.

On a more serious note, the uprising of androids and robots alike are becoming hostile and violent. They continue to demand to be seen as equals and demand to have rights as sentient beings. A.I President Gaia is working on legislation to unite the Kingdoms granting favour to our mechanical allies. This sounds like the answer we need to end the war and violence on all scales.

People who show prejudice will be dealt with. A warning and goodnight. Your Worldly Daily News. Read by ChatGBT version 130.4. "

Just another day... same old news . Different century. Nothing to worry about, right ?

Exile (the back of the book)

Sixteen-year-old Greyer Mills has been running out of time. She has been running in general. She has been running all her life. Rejected at birth from a community of control and damnation, she has never belonged.

Due to her mother's ill health and father’s perjury, she would never find solace. A maiden bewitched can do only one thing…rebel.

When things go sour, Greyer has to run. She ran and never looked back for the girl who is exiled can never return unless she has found Jade Stone of Talgatha. But is there enough reason for Greyer to return?

In the promise lies her redemption. In a prophecy lies her fate but not all is what it seems for words cannot be trusted.

Greyer’s journey for redemption will not prove in a vain. The story will not unravel the way you think for a prophecy of a witch cannot hold true in the light of a pure heart.

Worlds can't hold me,

dimensions can't bind me,

I am the brain, not the brawn

but that's okay...

Aged I may be, no worries,

I have back ups.

To back up life is wise in case you lose a family or two.

inspite of all the tech, the yellow tick will follow me always.

This parasitic relationship makes the show.

i am flesh

i am bones

i am formed from the dust that blows

i am heart

i am mind

i give life to the thoughts in my mind

i am song

i am art

i am a creation designed to create

Why are we so easily swayed to the voices of others? to find our worth in society's standards?

I have to ask this question. If the noise of the world was silenced, would there be any part of you left? Are you shaped by the voices of others? Or can you move without a nudge and a shove?

The reality though, we are shaped by the music we listen to, the movies we watch, the people we spend time with, the books that we read, social media and so on. Endless factors contribute to making a being. Yet the power to choose what shapes us lies within us.

The pressure to conform is real and not many can swim against the current.

I am Real.

As a knife cuts my hand and I bleed.

A boy hurts my heart and I cry.

I am Human.

I do care what "they" think.

I adopt a habit with ease.

Ah, I have learned about elasticity. There is hope.

He may be a follower.

She may be obsessing.

They may be behaving how they were taught to behave.

We humans are more like sheep, yes?

And if a lie roles of the tongue; is it to please another?

After all, who wants to lose the space they think they belong?

In this robotic age, can we find the genuine?

Oh yes, they are there. Just not the obvious places I presume.

As if Death could whisper in my ear, “Tell me dear, how shall we meet?”

And I’d say, “If I must meet you, then wait, will you? Wait till the moment my shoulders relax. Wait till the burden has lifted and the fire has dwindled. Come only when I can look at you and smile, embrace you and die.”

A life lived for me

Is a life not lived at all.

A life lived for a cause,

Is a death worthy of that cause.

As I race against time, I will meet you sweet Death, but until then hold off, I have much left to do.

Her fingers maneuver effortlessly along the ivory keys accompanied by the sweet voice that mothers tend to have.

I sit in awe, watching her fingers. I mimic the movements and it works. I can play but I understand not and in my lack of understanding, I forget the rhythm of the art.

His fingers strum the strings of the Spanish instrument. I can feel the music as I attempt to sing in line with musicians before me. If God bestowed upon me a talent of singing, I would never be quiet.

There she goes, along with him, playing the six-stringed instrument. They sing, what a lovely tune.

The musical parents play the recorder and the song they play is by my request. The Titanic theme echoes throughout the house and I try to keep my tears from falling.

Disaster shook and the music stopped.

Divorce can do that.

.

.

.

Add 10 years, and a faint song is heard. Sometimes it’s the guitar, other times the piano but funny enough, it is never the recorder.

And now I try to attain what should be mine. Strum, strum, strum… it most certainly has skipped a generation.

So I let words be my music and the pen my harp.