Beneath a Poisoned Sky

The Earth lay silent beneath a thick veil of ash and smog, its once vibrant cities now crumbling husks scattered across a poisoned wasteland. Skyscrapers stood like skeletal fingers clawing at a perpetually overcast sky, their glass eyes shattered and vacant. Rivers that had once nourished thriving civilizations now bubbled with toxic sludge, their banks littered with rusted debris and the bones of the past. 

Humanity had fled this dying world, chasing hope among the stars. The great ships had risen into the heavens like metal leviathans, carrying the chosen few to Mars, leaving behind those too weak, too poor, or too stubborn to follow. The exodus was hailed as a new beginning, but for the forsaken, it marked the end of an era—and perhaps the end of everything.

Among the ruins, nomads moved like ghosts, clad in patchworks of scavenged gear that shielded them from the searing radiation. Their lives were a grim cycle of survival, trading the safety of crumbling bunkers for the perilous hunt for food, clean water, or anything that could be bartered for another day of life. They were relics of a bygone age, clinging to existence amid the detritus of their ancestors' failure.

Stories whispered around flickering campfires told of salvation—a rumored sanctuary hidden in the heart of the wasteland, where the air was clean and the earth fertile. For some, it was a tale spun to keep despair at bay; for others, it was a beacon worth dying for. The nomads followed the remnants of roads and railways like pilgrims chasing a vision, their numbers thinning as the journey wore on.

The ruins themselves seemed alive, groaning and shifting with the wind, shadows dancing in the dim light of a dying sun. Machines long abandoned sometimes sputtered to life, their mechanical wails echoing eerily across empty streets. Mutated creatures prowled the periphery, their glowing eyes reflecting an unnatural hunger. Yet it was the silence that haunted most—the oppressive void where the hum of humanity's industry had once reigned.

Only time would tell if the nomads could carve out a future from the radioactive remains. As they wandered beneath a poisoned sky, hope flickered faintly within them, stubborn and unyielding. Earth had been left to die, but the last remnants of its children refused to go quietly. Perhaps salvation was a myth, or perhaps it lay just beyond the next horizon. Either way, the nomads pressed on, for in their hearts, survival was rebellion, and every breath a defiance of the end.

 

The Return

The world above had turned dark, a shadow of what it once was. Buildings lay like hollowed bones picked clean by war, streets choked with remnants of a civilization long forgotten. The last survivors had burrowed deep underground, not only to hide from the madness of the Second American Civil War but to escape the poisoned air of a broken society. Now, after years of silence, these hidden remnants of humanity were stirring.

For decades, they had rebuilt in secrecy, carving out a life far from the ravaged streets and hollow promises of the old world. They raised their children in chambers of rock and metal, their homes lit by scavenged technology and repurposed energy cells. They preserved the knowledge of the past, speaking in whispers of a time when cities sparkled like stars against the night sky. They had learned patience, discipline, and most of all, they had grown stronger.

At long last, they were ready to emerge. Word had spread through the underground halls like wildfire, igniting hearts with a rare and intoxicating sense of hope. Leaders rose from the ranks of the survivors, inspiring courage in those who had only known the quiet darkness of their hidden world. It was time to reclaim what had been lost, to set foot again on the scarred earth above, to rebuild and bring order to the ruins of the once-great cities.

They ascended in groups, led by scouts who ventured into the wasteland to survey the desolate streets, marking which buildings still stood and where they could find clean water. The return to the surface was both awe-inspiring and sobering. Towering skyscrapers loomed over them, mere skeletons of their former glory, casting jagged shadows in the dying light. The wind was different here, carrying scents of dust and rust, yet to those who emerged, it was the scent of freedom.

This new world would not be built on the chaos and division of the past. They would lay the foundation for a society of compassion, integrity, and resilience, where the echoes of war would finally fade. Those who returned to the surface were not mere survivors—they were builders, the architects of a new era. They knew the path forward would be treacherous, filled with hardships that would test their will, but they also knew that the future lay in their hands, and they would not squander it. 

Together, they would breathe life back into the ruins, one block at a time, and the cities that had once fallen would rise again.

 

Something True

In silent fields of dawn-lit haze,  

Where earth meets sky in gentle praise,  

A whisper stirs, a subtle guide—  

To look within, not just outside.

With each new step, a world unfolds,  

In quiet depths, the secret holds.  

No rush, no race, no need to be—  

For answers grow in mystery.

The smallest stream, a winding song,  

The steady path that leads along.  

With patience flows the river's way,  

Revealing truths the quiet say.

For every star and breath of night  

Awakens dreams in tender light.  

In boundless skies, we learn to see,  

That what we seek, we come to be.

So journey on with open eyes,  

Beneath the vast, forgiving skies.  

The zen of discovery waits anew,  

Where each small step is something true.

 

No One Left

Once a bustling epicenter of innovation and dreams, San Francisco now stands as a hollow remnant of its former self. Its iconic skyline, once outlined against a vibrant bay, now looms silent and foreboding. High-rises are skeletons clothed in ivy, their windows shattered or missing entirely, gaping like empty eye sockets. Streets, once congested with electric cars and cyclists, are eerily still, swallowed by creeping vines and ankle-high grasses breaking through cracked pavement.

The Golden Gate Bridge stretches across the bay, abandoned and rusting, its cables coiled with moss and wildflowers sprouting between the faded stripes of its lanes. Fog rolls through the empty city, clinging to empty storefronts, curling around benches and streetlights. Rusting signs advertise cafés and tech startups that once boasted “changing the world.” Now, only nature does so, without fanfare or ambition.

What was once a world-renowned park is now more forest than recreation space, with towering oaks and redwoods retaking their claim among crumbling walkways. Deer wander fearlessly through the ghostly neighborhoods, and hawks circle silently above, their cries echoing over the desolation. An ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and wet earth, but there are no pedestrians to feel it, no sounds of life except for the whispering grasses and the occasional rustle of a small animal.

No one is left to remember what the city once was. San Francisco has been abandoned, its great promises betrayed by policies that stripped it of vitality and left it to the quiet persistence of nature. It has become a ghost town—a strange, surreal Eden, where humanity’s creations crumble away and the earth reclaims what was always hers.

 

Backroom Deals

In shadowed rooms where whispers creep,  

They make their deals, the promises cheap,  

Behind closed doors, they trade and scheme,  

While feeding us a hollow dream.  

Their power swells, and justice fades, unseen.

With smiles as sharp as blades that slice,  

They sell their souls at twice the price.  

Behind each grin, a dagger hides,  

As truth and honor slip and slide.  

The people’s trust – a coin they cast aside.

They shake our hands, then wash them clean,  

Erase their tracks, disguise the scene.  

Pledges made on stage to cheers,  

Are buried deep in greed and fears.  

A legacy of lies they leave as souvenirs.

The laws they draft are chains in disguise,  

Bound tight by wealth and tangled lies.  

They raise the walls, they seal the gate,  

And leave the world they’ll soon create  

To those they’ve kept outside, to bear the weight.

And yet we march to voices loud,  

Fooled by the faces they endow.  

While backroom deals decide our fate,  

We’re left to dream, to hope, to wait,  

As power rots in every hand we shake.

 

A Strange Stillness

The silence in the once-bustling cities was deafening, broken only by the haunting whistle of wind through shattered glass and broken concrete. Towers of steel, now blackened and skeletal, stretched against a gray sky, symbols of failed promises and lost freedoms that once pulsed with life. Billboards faded by time still bore the ghostly slogans of another era, empty proclamations of unity, freedom, and hope—all relics of a society that betrayed itself.

In the streets, remnants of a past civilization lay scattered: fragments of discarded phones, rusted cars frozen in traffic jams, remnants of a moment when people thought they were in control of their destiny. The old government buildings stood in eerie silence, a sharp reminder of the power structures that once promised security, prosperity, and freedom but delivered fear, control, and ruin. In the debris, the faded remnants of a flag fluttered weakly, barely recognizable, its stars and stripes tattered like the principles it once represented.

What little life remained lurked in the shadows, scavengers or remnants of the past who wandered with little memory of what came before. The air was thick, not with smog, but with a palpable sense of abandonment—a strange stillness that hinted at the truth too late to save anyone: that no promise, no freedom, was ever truly secure.

 

Without a Glimmer of Light

In the aftermath of America’s fall, only a scattered handful of survivors roam what was once a prosperous land, now hollowed out, abandoned by both time and hope. Each day is a battle—not against any clear enemy, but against hunger, the brutal elements, and a despair that gnaws at the spirit as relentlessly as any predator. The survivors drift through empty cities, shattered buildings where echoes of the past linger in the rustling paper and creaking walls. Highways, once veins pulsing with life, lie in silence, choked by weeds and cracked asphalt.

Small groups cling to the remains of long-dead suburbs, making shelters of what they can scavenge, turning wrecked cars and gutted homes into meager hideaways. Food is whatever they can scrounge or trade for, sometimes scavenged from forgotten pantries, sometimes pried from the wild brush growing over long-abandoned fields. Occasionally, they gather at the edges of former towns to trade and share news in whispers, but even these gatherings are marked by mistrust and fear.

Each sunset brings a solemn quiet, the land slipping into a dark and foreboding hush. With no electricity, no streetlights, and no cities burning bright on the horizon, night falls as it did in the ancient past, blanketing everything in a darkness that only deepens the loneliness. In this broken world, survival is the only dream left, and even that grows dimmer by the day. The future stretches out like the empty roads—desolate, uncertain, and without a glimmer of light.