I cry out at the injustice of the world. I watch my friends die. Flames envelope the buildings I called home. My country is in ruins, the planet: a roiling mess. All I know to do is shout at the sky, hoping there's a god somewhere who'll hear me scream.They start as a prayer, my cries for help, and they form into a tempest. I watch me friends die like butterflies caught in a net, killed for the beauty of destruction, for the benefit of someone so wealthy and far away that I do not recognize the world they're in. I do not recognize them as human. They are a monster, a vengeful god who was given the left overs of an experiment long doomed to fail. We are the left overs. I am what's left over. And I wish I could say that that made me better somehow, that it was somehow worth it in the end, that I'm a better person, that I've gained some knowledge that'll sustain me through the ages, but none of that is true. I'm not better, and no matter how much knowledge I gain, it could never be worth this much agony. It could never be worth the lives of my friends. It could never be worth feeling of my own soul suffocating under the weight of tragedy. It could never be worth dying, touching peace... then being ripped back to the present, into a world so full of sorrow that nothing else is left. Even now, I feel bombs shaking the floor above my head. I'm underground, in a place where the war is a distant echo that reverberates through every nook and crany, starving our children, depriving us of the sun and the chance to feel safe, both things I learned to value as soon as they went away. I break my back trying to end this, end days that never come to an end, each moment unleashing a cataclysm of such destruction that a child's worst nightmare pales in comparison. The only thing my work changes is how much it hurts to fight. I don't want to keep living like this. I don't want to keep living at all. I need a god. I need a god who will save us from the horrors of war. Even as I write those words, I know a god will not come. The gods have forgotten us and its time I forget them to. I look around. There's a baby crying, a father injured with a spear and there's blood on the apple a mother is holding. She takes a bite. She doesn't even notice the blood. I look into her eyes, they're numb. She doesn't shake when the room trembles. She just sort of sways. I can't handle this. I can't watch the husk of a being endure. For then... then I will become a husk too. I'm breaking, just like this broken world. I'm breaking, I might be cracked open to find a reflective jewel, but there is nothing to reflect. The light is all gone. Instead of shining, I absorb. My insides fill with the cries of an eternity, my mind with the screams of mothers and fathers and parents, my soul with the silent agony of those who are dead. It doesn't go anywhere. I just sit. With desperation, I pick up my pen for one last sentence. This is the end, for there is no way I could express anything close... A few ink splots hover over the page, a tear from my pen that my eyes will never shed. I am numb. There is too much, for even reality to comprehend. I am numb, a husk. My pen, more alive than I am and my sword more broken than I shall ever be. I am numb. The war is over, because I have given up.

He snatches the map from my hands.

“Mine!”

We quarry.

“It’s mine!”

I snatch it back and glare at him.

“I’ll walk.”

“No, lets drive. It’s Miles.”

“Oh, hay Miles!”

“Hay? Oh, in the field. Hey.”

“Did you box?”

“Nah, I bottled it.”

“Where?”

“It’s on the rocks.”

He hands me the glasses.

I put them on and read the sign.

“Leo.”

“That’s me. It looks like we’re all here!”

“We’re going to mine.”

“Ore?”

“Copper!”

“...Plain clothes?”

“No. They're quite colourful.”

Greg waved his hands, and smiled at Martha. But Martha did not smile back. He watched as the skin on her face began to twist, and turn inside out— ‘n’ about- that startled & frightened him.

He stared back at his hands, and noticed that his fingers were changing to different colors as if he was looking through a kaleidoscope. Greg shook his head, and soon a wave of water splashed out from his elephant like ears. This was quite a bizarre day. Either he was on stage, and had been placed into some kind of trance, or this was really happening and there was no way out of his current reality!

#CORVUS

Mardi, 20th May, 2025.

I see you clear when I am weak,

You rise when I can barely speak.

You sharpen smiles, I try to hide,

You flourish where I die inside.

You trace my scars with lover’s grace,

Then dare me to reveal your face.

You whisper what I’d never say,

And laugh when I just look away.

You are the scream I hold inside,

The urge I bury, vilify.

You do not flinch nor do you fall,

You’d watch me beg and take it all.

You'd burn the bridge and salt the land,

As I reach out with trembling hands.

I’d pray for peace, you’d bait the fight.

I dim the flame, you crave the light.

You dress in rage I dare not feel,

You wound to prove that you can heal.

You dance where I would crawl or bow,

You do what conscience won’t allow.

And still, I feel you when I sleep,

You haunt the spaces silence keeps.

You’re not a ghost nor just a mask,

You are the mirror I would not ask.

We share a soul, a blood, a skin,

My shadow self and darker twin.

I remember looking up at my mother as a little girl and seeing a superhero. She was strong, and she never failed to speak up for what she believed in. She encouraged me to be inquisitive, to learn about the world around me, to be kind, but never settle for anything less than what I deserved. Through her, I learned what it meant to stand against injustice and care for those less fortunate than us. Through her, I learned to treat those who didn’t look like me or act like me with respect, even when we disagreed.

As an adult, I look at my mother and wonder, “How can this be the same woman who raised me?” Sometimes, I see an identical person, the strong woman who stands up for what she believes in. But often, in the space that surrounds the outline of her familiar image, I see someone I barely recognize. She still seems like the intelligent, fact-seeking woman I remember, but she mindlessly follows fools without question. The mother who supported organizations that helped the stranger, the foreigner, the refugee, now votes for policies that hurt them. The woman who spoke of the importance of kindness and love now voices hurtful comments about people whose looks or beliefs differ from hers.

But the moment that lets me truly see the difference between the mother who is familiar to me and the stranger who somehow takes up the same space is when she determines that I am also not the person she believed me to be. When I am finally brave enough to confess that I don’t agree with many of her opinions, she asks me, “Where did you get those convictions?”

“You!” I want to shout. “I learned from the woman who raised me!”

But instead, I just stare back at this person who is somehow, impossibly, two women at once.

Does she have a multiple personality?

Is she someone who deals with paranoia,they way her face contorts over her shoulder.

Looking over her shoulder in suspicion.

Or is she hiding herself,afraid to show the world who she is?

Her necklace thin like a scar speaks of her aging despair.

A bonnet,the one thing that that seems to compliment both her personalities.

Is she pretending to be someone she’s not,is she afraid to grow old,hiding that part of herself?

Or is she saying this is who I am?

But if you look beyond my wrinkles and weathered face,you will see who I truly am.

Am I an old woman or a young girl?

Have I always been afraid to grow old?

Is it that I’ve been traumatized by my obsession to stay young?

My memories and feelings so overwhelming that I have taken on another identity.

Am I drowning in the fountain of youth?

Going deeper into the complexities of the depths of my mind.

Who am I?

And what have I become?

This is based on the illusion of the young woman and the old lady.

I remember the first time I saw it.

Not knowing it was an illusion.

But there was something about it that continually drew my attention to it.

And I remember one day, ,I saw a different image in the picture.

If I was aware at the time,that if I knew it was an illusion,I wonder what I would have seen.

I remember it having a dark background,and seeing a young girl the first time.

Then one day I saw the old woman and the young lady simultaneously.

And that was years ago.

And this challenge brought me to this image again.

And once again,the images were simultaneously captured in my mind.

A pear appeared before

Disappearing peers, all together,

Altogether tethered, weathered,

Whethered-or-not, at once,

Singly, a loaned tear rowed down my cheek

Chicly, obliquely, weekly down the stream

Rendering, tendering, surrendering

A tear torn in my presence

Given to me, given the

Circumspection 'round my mind's

I ground of quintessence effervescing

Merrily down unpleasance

snow white, beautiful.

why are you still so

insecure?

sitting in the back of someone's car,

dark out,

and you don’t know

where you are.

snowflakes fall

and hit against the glass,

ripped tights and black lace

on pale skin,

beneath a borrowed coat

from a strange man.

dark wavy hair and

bright glassy eyes like diamonds,

red lips you allow to be kissed,

taste of blood in your mouth,

unsure if you like it.

he takes you out for drinks:

tonic and ice on gin.

you wish you had a part

that no one could get to,

a secret still untouched,

like snow before it's stepped on.

do you remember

being a virgin?

he says,

"why are you so shy?

it’s like you keep a lie".

your smile is rare,

but real with those you trust,

who know your heavy heart,

full of hurt and full of love.

but now it’s just

your makeup, smudged,

as you try to fix it,

barely recognizing yourself

in some broken pocket mirror.

snow white

do you want to be touched?

do you want to be felt?

i think you want something else.

i think you want to be seen,

you just want to be held,

but not by the men who

reach between your thighs,

you force yourself to open up,

they shall not dare to call it love.

three drops of blood

drip in the snow

as you leave,

disappear into the cold,

trying to keep it together,

singing a soothing song

to the moon,

girl, when will you finally

know yourself?

(Quick note: I understand that if you have to explain to a reader what he/she is about to read then you didn’t do a good job of writing it in the first place, but I wanted to clarify my thought process here because it got away from me.

Originally, I was just planning on entering the haiku that ended up being Part Three. I was going for a minimalistic slant. Then the song lyric aspect for titles came to mind. Then I started expanding on those and the other four haikus emerged and before I knew it, I had deviated from the “perception of space” theme and wandered into the “where am I at in relation to space” theme. So, that’s the excuse for not sticking to my initial goal. However, now that I think of it, since my perception changed even though the space stayed the same, maybe I didn’t miss the mark after all.)

Part One: “What you gonna do when everybody’s insane?”

Running a rat race

where we are all on treadmills,

each thinking they’ll win.

Part Two: “Stuck in the middle with you.”

The way to avoid

perpetual stagnation

is to change your space.

Part Three: “Well...how did I get here?”

There’s no end in sight

if on a Mobius strip.

So, find your own path.

Part Four: “Break on through to the other side.”

Ignore the carrot

and grab a hold of the stick.

Shift priorities.

Part Five: “Be runnin’ up that hill.”

It’s not where you start

that determines your success.

It’s where you finish.