They Marched On

As the United States teetered on the brink of collapse, it became clear that the corruption ran deeper than anyone could have imagined. Politicians, once thought to be stewards of the public good, had long traded their integrity for power, selling the nation piece by piece to a consortium of rich elites and tech behemoths. This new world order tightened its grip, weaving a web of influence that reached into every home, dictating thoughts, decisions, and destinies.

But in the heart of this engineered chaos, a spark flickered. What began as whispers in shadowed alleys and encrypted messages on hidden networks grew into a rumble that could not be silenced. People, burdened for too long by deceit and manipulation, began to open their eyes. They recognized the chains they had worn unknowingly, forged by the very hands that claimed to protect them.

With each passing day, the momentum built. It was not without struggle—fear, doubt, and betrayal tested their resolve. The weight of centuries of complacency fought against this rising tide, threatening to drown it before it could find its voice. Yet, something stronger sustained them: hope. Hope for a return to dignity, freedom, and the long-forgotten dream of a nation ruled by its people, not by those who sought to profit from its downfall.

Through shattered streets and amidst the ruins of once-great cities, they marched, undaunted by the power of their foes. This was their time, their declaration that the story of their nation would not end with a whimper under the watchful eyes of those who sought to control them. It would be a battle fought inch by inch, day by day, with the understanding that the road to reclaiming their country would be long and fraught with peril. But they marched on, unwavering, with the fire of a reborn spirit that refused to be extinguished.

 

Watch Out

"When corruption slips into the heart,

it steals the soul of the leader

and chains the freedom of the people."

 

Balance and Freedom

In stillness rests the hidden way,  

where wind and water softly play.  

The stones remain, the rivers bend—  

each finds its peace, each finds its end.  

The mountain stands, the valley yields,  

both serve the earth, both shape the fields.  

In giving space, they find their height,  

each shadowed form creates the light.  

A leaf will fall, a seed will grow,  

and by this trade, all things will know  

the pulse of life, the quiet breath,  

the dance of birth, the pause of death.  

As seasons turn, so we unfold,  

new hands to touch, new dreams to hold.  

In letting go, the heart can see  

all it will lose, yet come to be.  

Thus silence hums, as rivers flow;  

no need to push, no need to know.  

What’s born from peace will soon be free—  

the heart, the soul, infinity.

 

Stillness Stirs with Life

In the misted green,  

shadows drift through silver light—  

quiet breath of leaves.  

Roots wrap ancient stone,  

soft moss cradles the dark earth,  

secrets lie beneath.  

Stillness stirs with life,  

songless whispers fill the air,  

all things one and whole.

 

In the Hush

In the hush of bamboo, twilight descends,  

The Zen Master sits where the forest bends,  

Wrapped in robes, his form serene and still,  

Breath soft as mist that crowns the hill.  

All fades but the pulse of dusk’s gentle ends.  

The wind stirs lightly, a whisper, a song,  

Through slender stalks, where shadows throng.  

Each leaf a note, each rustle a word,  

In silence he listens, yet nothing is heard,  

For all things merge where he belongs.  

Bare feet on earth, his heartbeat slows,  

In the cradle of green, his spirit flows.  

Eyes closed, the world falls away,  

Thoughts dissolve like dawn’s soft ray,  

And only the breath of the forest knows.  

The bamboo bows, its tall spires sway,  

As darkness gathers the last of day.  

The master rests, alone yet whole,  

Bound by no need, no fear, no goal,  

A drop in the night’s unfolding play.  

And when he rises, as shadows give birth,  

To stars that flicker in heaven’s girth,  

He steps as light as a floating leaf,  

One with the night, his heart in brief  

Takes leave of the forest and returns to earth.

 

Voiceless Beacon

Lighthouse stands alone,  

Silent keeper of the night,  

In the mist and waves,  

Guiding those who drift afar,  

One pure flame against the dark.

Bound to neither sea nor land,  

Fixed upon the shifting tides.  

Unmoved by the storm,  

Yet in every glimmering blink,  

Points a way to those who roam.

Worn by endless salt and wind,  

Ancient stone, yet holding fast.  

It does not reach out,  

Only lights the path ahead,  

For those who choose to see.

In stillness, it speaks,  

Voiceless beacon, shining clear,  

No demand to come,  

Only presence, nothing more—  

A steady pulse through the haze.

When dawn breaks the sea,  

Its glow fades into the light,  

Purpose served till dusk,  

Faithful through the dark again,  

Steadfast watcher of the shore.