Ashes on the Wind

The morning breaks, then fades by noon,

The day is gone, the night comes soon.

We chase the light, we grasp, we plead—

Yet time still plants its quiet seed.

The footsteps that we leave in sand

Are smoothed away by nature’s hand.

No matter how we fight or cry,

All marks we make are meant to die.

The voices loud, the dreams we shout,

Are swallowed whole by creeping doubt.

We rise, we fall, we laugh, we weep—

And still, we’re carried into sleep.

Ashes scattered on the breeze,

Names forgotten by the seas.

What once was precious, fierce, and proud,

Now drifts unseen beneath a cloud.

A fleeting kiss, a fleeting scar,

A fleeting wish upon a star—

They all dissolve, they all grow cold,

As time reclaims what it once sold.

Yet in that end, a peace is born,

A place beyond regret and scorn.

The wheel must turn, the song must cease—

To make the space for newer peace.

So while the glass still holds some sand,

Reach out, reach out with open hand.

For life will slip, and death will mend—

And we are here, and then we end.

 

Beneath the Fury

The streets heaved like a living thing—angry, hungry, loud. They surged with people who had long forgotten what peace felt like, or maybe had never known it at all. Young and old, masked and painted, armed with makeshift clubs or just bare fists—they didn’t come with hope. They came with rage.

All day the people had been told to wait.

Wait for bread. Wait for power. Wait for medicine. Wait for justice.

And now, at last, they had stopped waiting.

It began with a whisper in the slums near the energy district: “They still have food in the towers.” The message spread like dry fire. It didn’t matter if it was true. In times like these, belief was more powerful than fact. Within hours, they were marching. By nightfall, they were rioting.

The government towers stood like smug gods above them, guarded by private mercenaries who looked down on the crowd as if they were insects. Drones hovered overhead, capturing footage for the state media who would edit the narrative by morning: “Unprovoked violence. Dangerous radicals. The government is responding to restore order.”

But there was no order to restore. Only a fragile illusion, held together with plastic words and digital lies.

People smashed windows not to loot but to scream. They hurled bricks not for gain but to be heard. And when the armored trucks rolled in and the tear gas hissed from rooftops, they did not run. They stood their ground and howled back at the gas, at the bullets, at the sky itself.

Among them were faces warped by years of indignity—mothers who had watched their children die from untreated fevers, veterans discarded like trash, the jobless and the homeless and the hopeless. But also, the young—burning with reckless purpose, wrapped in tribal cloth and slogans they barely understood, yet ready to bleed for the promise of something better… or the satisfaction of tearing down what remained.

Street fires lit the night orange. Statues toppled. Banners burned. In the distance, someone shouted into a makeshift loudspeaker, a voice trembling with fury: “They said they’d take care of us! They lied! This is our city!”

Cheers erupted, but they were jagged and hollow. No one controlled this anymore—not the factions, not the enforcers, not the politicians holed up in their guarded high-rises. The crowd was a storm, and it obeyed no one.

And yet, beneath the fury, a deeper current flowed—one of grief. Of betrayal. Of the aching, quiet knowledge that no one was coming to save them. The government had become a myth, a god that only showed its face to punish or deceive. And now the people were done worshiping it.

As buildings burned and walls fell, the city cried out—not in hope or triumph, but in mourning.

The funeral of a fallen nation had begun, and the streets were its procession.

 

Something Real

The smoke had become a permanent feature of the skyline.

What used to be Capitol Sector—once the administrative heart of the city—was now little more than ash and echo. Fires spread block by block, unchecked, licking at the steel bones of empty towers. Riots had turned from outbursts to routine, as common as the morning food lines. Entire neighborhoods burned because someone didn't get their ration card, or because the wrong emblem was painted on a wall. No one even remembered how the violence started—it just was, like the air, like hunger.

Kade moved through the ruins like a shadow. His cloak, singed and ragged, blended with the ash-flecked air. He stayed close to the old sewer routes beneath the Market Commons, popping up only when necessary. Above ground, chaos reigned. The tribal colors were everywhere—red scarves, yellow sashes, black armbands—each group claiming some ideology they barely understood, passed down like scripture from failed influencers and disgraced former officials.

Tonight, the red-scarved faction had set fire to the Bureau of Food Distribution. A statement, they claimed. But all it did was leave tens of thousands without even powdered protein for the week. The crowd cheered as the building collapsed in on itself, unaware they’d sealed their own fate. The politicians would spin the story by dawn—blame it on rival factions, call for new restrictions, more surveillance.

Kade wasn’t watching the blaze for spectacle. He was looking for someone.

Among the howling mobs and crumbling concrete, there were still a few who hadn’t given in. He had word that a teacher from Old Midtown had survived—the kind who taught real history, not state-mandated fiction. Someone brave enough to still use the word “truth” like it mattered.

He ducked behind a toppled monument to the Unity Party—its faceplate torn off, graffiti scrawled across its chest: WE SEE YOU. A good sign. His contact was close.

A child ran past, barefoot, clutching a can of stolen food. No older than ten. Behind her, two enforcers in black armor sprinted in pursuit. They didn’t care about the can. They never did. It was about the message: no one took without permission.

Kade threw a chunk of rubble across the street, drawing their attention. When they turned, the girl vanished into an alleyway. The enforcers shouted and gave chase to the wrong shadow. Good enough.

Sirens wailed, but no one flinched anymore. They were background noise now, like the flickering lights and distant screams. The city wasn’t falling—it had already fallen. They just hadn’t buried it yet.

And as it smoldered, Kade kept moving. Not to escape, but to find others like him. Builders. Thinkers. Carriers of memory.

Because somewhere in this burning graveyard of a civilization, he still believed something could rise again.

Something real.

 

Before the Decay

His name was Kade, though names mattered little now. In the Market Commons—what used to be a shopping mall before the Collapse—they called him “the Ghost,” not for any supernatural flair, but because he moved through the chaos unseen, unheard, and more importantly, unregistered. That alone made him dangerous.

Kade had once believed in the system, or what little of it was left. He stood in the forums, shouted with the rest, begged for scraps from the same crooked officials who smiled with powdered faces and bled the region dry. But over time, he saw the truth—the government no longer governed. It placated, misled, enriched itself. Bureaucrats swapped loyalty for luxuries, selling influence like snake oil in the dying days of Rome. Votes were auctioned. Rights were rented. And those too proud or too poor to play the game were left to rot in the alleys of forgotten infrastructure.

Most people accepted it. They waited in lines, filled out forms no one read, and blamed rival tribes for their suffering. They’d fight each other in the streets over crumbs before daring to question those who sat in the gilded towers downtown. It was easier that way. Rage was a currency now—spent lavishly, but always misdirected.

But Kade had grown tired of rage. He wanted meaning.

He scavenged old books, learned what life was like before the decay—when people built things, fixed things, dreamed. Not perfect, no. But compared to now? It was legend. He wasn’t trying to restore the old world—he wasn’t that naïve. But he carried within him a spark, a stubborn idea that somewhere beyond the tribalism, beyond the dependency and decay, something better could be planted.

He moved between zones by night, delivering forbidden books, helping people learn to purify water, fix generators, mend tools. Quiet resistance. The kind that didn't need banners or slogans—just hands, minds, and time.

The officials called him a threat to "order." But there was no order. Only theater. Only grift.

And Kade was done playing along.

 

Echoes in the Ruins

They called it civilization still, but it was little more than an illusion—hollow and flickering like the last light of a dying fire. The world had regressed into tribalism, fractured into warring factions drawn along lines of ideology, identity, and desperation. Communities once held together by shared purpose and civil discourse had splintered into bitter enclaves that saw every outsider as a threat. The common good was a memory, replaced by suspicion, entitlement, and fear.

In the shadow of crumbling cities, people no longer worked together to build anything of value. Instead, they gathered in makeshift assemblies, shouting over each other with outstretched hands—not to offer help, but to demand more. More food. More protection. More comfort. The government, if it could still be called that, was a patchwork of bloated officials and shameless opportunists, surviving on grift and theater. Politicians postured like emperors of old, doling out empty promises while siphoning resources behind closed doors. They ruled not by merit or strength, but through spectacle, bribes, and manipulation.

Hours each day were wasted in endless queues and crowded forums where the masses pleaded for salvation—rations, housing, medication. The people had traded liberty for dependency long ago, and now clung to the state like children to a cruel and distant parent. They forgot how to fend for themselves. Forgotten how to build. How to think. They didn’t ask if the state should provide—only why it hadn’t yet.

It was Rome again, but worse—because this time, there was no new world waiting to rise in its place. Just echoes in the ruins and the gnawing certainty that the fall was not just near—it had already happened.

 

The Hourglass Fades

The hourglass stands, serene, upright,

Its sands cascade in golden light.

Each grain a breath, a fleeting flame—

All fall the same, all end the same.

We watch it spill, we beg it slow,

But time is deaf to what we know.

It does not hear, it will not wait—

It only moves, sealing our fate.

A thousand dreams in crystal fall,

Unspoken truths, unanswered calls.

They vanish as the glass runs thin,

And leave no sign of what had been.

No hand can turn it once it's done,

No race to rerun, no war re-won.

We try to catch each falling thread—

But time’s ahead, and we are led.

We leave behind no echo’s cry,

Just fading steps and empty sky.

No monument, no grand refrain—

Just silence where we once had pain.

The last grain falls, the glass stands still,

No voice remains, no hope, no will.

A whisper lost in wind and air—

We were, we passed, we’re never there.

So live before the glass grows bare,

Before we’re ghosts of what was there.

Make beauty now, with all your grace—

Or vanish, nameless, without trace.

 

Standing in Ruins

The world had changed, though not in the way anyone hoped. Behind podiums and press briefings stood not leaders, but lizards—cold-blooded creatures wrapped in human skin. They blinked too slowly, smiled too wide, and talked in circles, spinning lies so polished they sparkled like broken glass in the sun. These politicians, if you could still call them that, were puppets—owned outright by the drug cartels that now wrote the laws, funded the campaigns, and decided who lived and who disappeared.

The cartels didn’t hide in the shadows anymore. They were the shadows. They whispered into earpieces behind bulletproof doors, their empires built on addiction, fear, and blood. In exchange for protection and power, the reptiles in suits gave them whatever they wanted—land, silence, immunity. Justice had been bought and buried in unmarked graves.

The media, once tasked with truth, had become another mouthpiece. They sang the praises of these snakes in silk ties, packaged corruption as compassion, and smeared anyone who dared speak otherwise. The people were lulled, fed a steady diet of fear and distraction—celebrity scandals, identity wars, and synthetic hope. But underneath it all, the public was beginning to stir.

Eyes were opening.

Voices were rising.

A quiet fury was taking shape in the alleys and forums and underground networks where truth had gone to hide. The illusion was cracking, the masks slipping, and the reptiles knew it. They tightened their grip, passed harsher laws, surveilled everything, and branded dissent as terrorism. But it was a desperate move—because once people see the puppeteers, they stop fearing the puppets.

Still, it might be too late.

The system was too far gone. The soil soaked with too much blood. And even if the people rose up, even if they tore down every last liar and snake in the halls of power, they’d be left standing in ruins—with nothing but ashes to rebuild from.

And yet... sometimes, that’s exactly what’s needed.

 

To Be As One

I.

No hand divine lays illness low,

We are the winds that choose to blow.

A silent guilt beneath the skin,

Invites the pain we hold within.

II.

What crime have we refused to face?

What shame lies still in secret place?

The body bears what mind conceals,

And through the flesh, the soul appeals.

III.

Yet even sorrow brings its gift,

A truth beneath the silent rift.

For God, in love, does not condemn—

We choose the fear, then call on Him.

IV.

And if we find the root of dread,

The chains dissolve, the path is led.

To fear is to forget the flame

That lit our soul before it came.

V.

But some refuse the healing light,

And dwell instead in endless night.

Only the heart, in will and grace,

Can call the light to fill that space.

VI.

The soul will slip when time is near,

And death, a door, not end, nor fear.

Not punishment, but slow ascent—

Each life a whispered, brief lament.

VII.

What lessons missed will rise again,

Till we transcend the dance of pain.

For life and death both wear the veil—

A fading echo, soft and pale.

VIII.

Still here, within the hush of breath,

We touch the edge of life and death.

In prayer, in stillness, we may see

A glimpse of vast eternity.

IX.

To be as one with all that is,

Beyond the scars and mind’s abyss.

And when we vanish, calm and free—

We fade not lost, but peacefully.

 

The Quiet Circle

A seed will fall, the tree will rise,

Then reach its arms toward open skies.

It sheds its leaves, it bows with grace—

And finds renewal in its place.

The river flows, it never stays,

Yet carves its truth through countless days.

It does not mourn what drifts away—

It only moves, come what may.

The breath we take is not our own,

It came from stars, from dust and bone.

We borrow time, we borrow light—

Then pass it on into the night.

The flower blooms, then fades from view,

Its petals lost in morning dew.

But from that fall, a new life grows—

And so the silent cycle flows.

There is no start, there is no end—

Just change, just flow, just fold and bend.

To cling is pain, to grasp is fear—

But peace will come to those who clear.

A moment lived, a moment gone,

Each breath a bell, a passing song.

The now is all we truly own—

The rest is shadow, dust, unknown.

So let us sit, and sip the tea,

Accept what is, and simply be.

For in this stillness we may find—

The world is kind when we are kind.

 

Reflections Through the Glass

I see the child I used to be,

With eyes unclouded, wild and free.

A world ahead, so vast, unknown—

Now much is lost, and more has flown.

The mirror holds a stranger's face,

Time’s quiet hand has left its trace.

The dreams once bright now flicker low,

Yet still, within, a faint hope glows.

The past is smoke behind my eyes,

A blur of truths and well-meant lies.

Some doors I shut, some stayed ajar—

Each one a wound, each one a scar.

The present is a fleeting spark,

A fragile flame against the dark.

It burns too fast, it slips too thin—

Yet it’s the only place we’ve been.

The future waits with veiled disguise,

A shapeless ghost beneath the skies.

It does not promise, does not swear—

It only dares us to prepare.

Will someone speak my name aloud,

Or will I vanish with the crowd?

The fear of fading fuels the fire—

To build, to write, to still aspire.

So I reflect, and still I strive—

To live, to love, to feel alive.

Though time will take and time will bend,

Let meaning mark me in the end.

 

The Final Silence

We claw at time with desperate hands,

But none can break its silent plans.

It moves without a backward glance,

Unmoved by tears, untouched by chance.

We build our lives on shifting sand,

And write our names with trembling hand.

But wind will come, and rain will fall—

And wash away the best of all.

A million voices came before,

Now lost beyond memory's door.

They laughed and wept and loved like we—

Now ghosts beneath a barren tree.

Not carved in stone, nor held in lore,

No stories passed from door to door.

Just shadows cast beneath the stars,

Forgotten who they truly are.

The dreams we dreamed, the vows we made,

Will fade to black, will blur and fade.

No witness left, no soul to speak—

Of every triumph, bold or meek.

We vanish not with cries and flame,

But quiet loss without a name.

The world will turn, the sky will gleam,

As if we lived within a dream.

So while the light still finds your face,

Leave love behind in every place.

For time will steal, but cannot sever

The kindness sown—it lives forever.

 

Erased by Time

No statues stand, no songs remain,

No echoes call the speaker’s name.

The world moves on, it does not weep—

It buries deep, then falls asleep.

The hands that built, the hearts that gave,

Lie still beneath an unmarked grave.

No pages turned, no stories told—

Just dust where once there had been gold.

The laughter fades from empty halls,

No footstep lingers in those walls.

The scent, the smile, the voice, the grace—

All vanished with barely a trace.

Time does not pause to mourn or care,

It clears the path, it strips the air.

And all we were, and all we meant,

Is spent like coins we never lent.

The photos fade, the names grow faint,

Erased like tears on window paint.

Not even whispers know our song—

Just silence humming all day long.

We cry for more than breath and skin—

We ache to leave some mark within.

But time devours without remorse,

It keeps its cold, unbending course.

So let your soul in colors burn,

Make moments bold at every turn.

For in the end, we all must face

The cruel, slow art of time's erase.

 

When We Vanish

The hour grows late, the light grows low,

And still so much we didn’t show.

A thousand things we meant to say

Now echo faint, then drift away.

We thought we had the time to spare,

To fix the cracks, to show we care.

But moments flee like startled birds,

And silence falls in place of words.

Goodbyes were whispers never said,

Now carved in stone, or left unread.

A door half-closed, a final glance—

We missed our cue, we missed the dance.

The hands we meant to hold are gone,

The nights we swore would linger on.

Now time retreats, and we are left

With hearts grown heavy, hope bereft.

We vanish fast—no warning call,

No time to rise, no time to fall.

Just gone, like sparks in evening's breath,

A blink, a hush, the hush of death.

And those we love will feel the sting,

Of all the things we didn't bring.

The hugs delayed, the truth withheld,

The wounds we could have touched and healed.

So while you breathe, don’t turn away—

Say all the things you meant today.

For when the end comes swift and sly,

It gives no time for one last try.

 

The Vanishing

She once was fire, a roaring flame,

With laughter loud and proud her name.

But now the wind has swept her song—

The world moves fast, it won’t wait long.

Her mirror shows a stranger’s face,

A map of years she can’t replace.

Each wrinkle carved by joy and pain—

A story told, then lost again.

She danced in rooms now gone to dust,

Loved fiercely, blindly, full of trust.

But memories fade like morning mist,

And time forgets the ones it kissed.

No one recalls her favorite tune,

The way she’d hum beneath the moon.

The photos fade, the letters yellow—

Time bleaches every vibrant hello.

She walks through crowds that never see,

A ghost of who she used to be.

Their busy eyes don’t catch her grace,

Just pass her by, erase her face.

She whispers truths no one will hear,

Speaks to a world that won’t come near.

Her name grows soft, her footsteps thin—

The world forgets where she has been.

Yet in her chest a heartbeat stays,

A flame defiant in the haze.

Though time may steal, and shadows rise,

She lived—she loved—and touched the skies.

 

Echoes of Regret

The sands slip swift through the hour glass,

Each moment lost we can't amass.

We say “tomorrow,” count the days,

But time moves on in quiet ways.

We save our dreams for someday skies,

While youth fades out before our eyes.

We speak of love we meant to show,

To hearts now gone, they'll never know.

The Reaper’s footsteps echo near,

A rhythm born of doubt and fear.

He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t chase—

Just waits as we avoid his face.

Regret is sharp, a bitter friend,

It haunts the things we didn’t send.

The words unsaid, the roads untried,

The truths we buried deep inside.

A glance, a touch, a last goodbye—

So many chances passed us by.

We thought we had a little more,

But time had locked the final door.

We chased the things that never stayed,

While golden days just slipped and frayed.

Now silence weighs where voices sang,

And emptiness begins to hang.

So do not wait, do not delay—

Each heartbeat steals a breath away.

The clock will stop, the lights will dim,

And all that’s left is what has been.

 

Let the Moment be my Prayer

Let me dance beneath the open sky,

no chains to bind, no need to try—

each breath a song, each step a flame,

no past to mourn, no one to blame.

I won’t wait for some distant guide,

no mountain climb, no need to hide.

The truth I seek is in this hour,

in blooming fields and sudden showers.

Freedom lives in a passing breeze,

in laughing hearts and climbing trees.

The world is vast, yet here I stand,

with nothing planned and open hands.

Forget the sages, cloaked in lore—

I’ll write new truths, then write some more.

No sacred book, no ancient scroll,

just living light inside my soul.

I kiss the dawn with eager lips,

taste freedom’s wine in every sip.

No masters now, no need to roam—

each breath I take becomes my home.

So let the moment be my prayer,

the starlit night, the morning air.

In living now, I come alive—

unbound, awake, I soar, I thrive.

 

Whispers of the Reaper

The Reaper waits with silent breath,

No need for scythe or call of death.

He walks beside us every day,

A shadow in the morning gray.

His cloak is stitched with lost goodbyes,

With dreams that vanished ‘neath the skies.

He does not rush, he does not slow—

He simply reaps what time will grow.

The clock hands spin, the minutes flee,

Like autumn leaves from trembling tree.

We chase and race and strive and yearn,

Yet never know which page will turn.

A cradle now, a coffin soon,

Beneath the sun and waning moon.

We blink, we breathe, and time slips past—

A whisper, then it’s gone so fast.

But in the blaze of fleeting years,

Are moments lit with joy and tears.

A kiss, a laugh, a hand to hold—

More precious far than crowns or gold.

So live, before the reaper speaks,

Climb every hill, seek all the peaks.

Say what you mean, be kind, be true—

The time you have belongs to you.

For when he comes with final grace,

And bids farewell to time and place,

May all you’ve done and all you’ve been

Burn bright, like stars, beneath his grin.

 

Waiting for our Reunion

The old man sat on the edge of his bed, the twilight pressing gently through the window, laying long shadows across the floor. His fingers, worn and trembling, traced the outline of a photograph that had grown soft with age. Her face smiled back at him — her eyes full of light, her laughter forever caught in that still frame. His daughter.

He hadn’t spoken aloud in days, not since the last visitor had left with eyes full of pity and promises they’d never keep. Now, with the house silent and the end near, he found his voice again — not loud, but sure, like a whisper carried by the wind.

“My words and deeds are coming to an end,” he said softly, more to the photo than the room. “A past folded up and put away.”

He felt it, that subtle thinning between here and somewhere else — the veil growing sheer. Regrets came and went like tides, but the deepest ache was her absence. She had gone before him, stolen by the cruel silence of time. He’d spoken to her every night since, as though she could still hear, as though death had not truly ended anything, only delayed it.

“This, my pause,” he whispered, closing his eyes, “before passing into other realms...”

He saw her then, not with his eyes, but with whatever sense lives beyond the body. Running barefoot in fields of golden grass, arms outstretched, laughing, waiting. The ache in his chest lifted, replaced by something warm. Familiar.

“…new explorations, old faces waiting for our reunion.”

And with a final breath that sounded almost like a sigh of relief, he let go. The photograph slipped from his fingers and settled on the floor. Her smile still shining.

 

Waves of Impermanence

I.

By the edge of the sea stands a temple of wood,

Its beams worn smooth by salt and time.

Seagulls chant sutras in the wind—

No wall is permanent, no roof immune.

Even stillness sways with the tide.

II.

Morning fog wraps the bell in silence.

A single chime drifts across the foam,

Echoing the breath of those long gone—

So light, so brief,

Like mist evaporating in dawn.

III.

Monks sweep sand from the threshold,

Though the wind returns it each night.

Such is the way of all things—

No gesture holds forever,

Yet each is done with care.

IV.

The rocks below are scarred and smooth,

Etched by centuries of patient waves.

So too are we—

Shaped by time, softened by sorrow,

Our edges worn into meaning.

V.

A lantern flickers in the temple’s heart,

Fed by oil soon to run dry.

Still it burns,

Knowing its fate,

Lighting the path for another.

VI.

The cherry tree blooms beside the gate,

A brief, unburdened celebration.

It asks no why,

Only opens fully,

Then lets its petals fall.

VII.

From this cliff, the ocean is endless,

The temple, a breath on the wind.

We come, we bow,

We vanish—

But the waves keep chanting home.

 

A Soft Goodbye

I’m nothing now—

not a was, nor will be,

a whisper in silence,

ether in a vacuum,

a broken vow,

a ship lost at sea.

Gone up in fumes,

vanished somehow,

along with my memory,

a ghost in the gloom,

a name unspoken

in time’s dark loom.

Once I burned bright,

a flame in the dark,

but winds were strong—

they stole my spark.

Now I drift

like ash through night.

No footprints left

on this road of glass,

just cracks and echoes

as the moments pass.

Each breath is borrowed,

each heartbeat masked.

I called to the stars,

they turned away.

I prayed to the void,

but it had nothing to say.

Now even my shadow

refuses to stay.

My face, forgotten

by mirrors and men,

I dissolve with dusk

and rise again

not in form,

but in aching "when?"

I’m nothing now—

but maybe a sigh,

the trace of a tear

in a stranger’s eye,

a flicker, a flick,

a soft goodbye.

 

Justice Gone Rogue

The gavel no longer symbolized justice.

In hushed chambers behind locked doors, rogue judges—once impartial arbiters of the law—had become pawns in a dangerous game. Their robes, once a sign of honor, now cloaked corruption born of whispered threats and quiet bribes. Blackmail, money, and promises of power twisted their decisions until truth was irrelevant, and only allegiance to hidden masters mattered.

These judges were not interpreting the law—they were rewriting it to serve their own ends. They blocked the executive branch from acting, denying it the authority that the Constitution had granted. Every injunction was a dagger in the back of the republic. The balance of power was crumbling, and the nation teetered on the edge of legal anarchy. If the executive could no longer act, if the courts could be weaponized by those pulling strings behind the curtain, then the rule of law itself meant nothing.

The people felt it. They saw the headlines, the carefully worded rulings meant to confuse and deflect, and they knew something was wrong. Trust in the system—already fragile—began to rot from the inside. What was once a system of checks and balances had become a system of obstruction and sabotage.

It could not stand.

Quiet conversations turned into war councils. Leaders who still remembered the meaning of duty braced for a different kind of fight—not one waged with tanks or missiles, but with resolve, defiance, and unshakable will. The battle was no longer about policy. It was about survival. About whether the nation would endure or be hollowed out and replaced by something unrecognizable.

There would be no pleasantries. No pretense of civility. The fight for the soul of the nation had begun, and the gloves were off.

Justice had gone rogue. Now, it would be dragged back into the light—kicking and screaming if necessary.

 

A Shrine of the Moment

Breathe in the tide, slow and still—

the moment crests without a name.

No future, no past to fill,

only now, a flickering flame.

The temple stands without a door,

waves bow low upon its stones.

Time forgets what came before,

wind recites the ocean's tones.

Each grain of sand a sutra’s page,

each breath a bell that softly rings.

The world outside—a drifting stage,

within, the hush of ancient things.

No need to seek, no place to run,

the shore unfolds beneath your feet.

With every rise of morning sun,

the self and sea in silence meet.

A gull cries once—then disappears,

its echo fades into the blue.

Like thoughts that vanish with our fears,

the now is vast, and always new.

Sit with the sea, be still and bare,

no temple roof, no monk in sight.

Yet sacredness is everywhere,

in salt and spray, in shade and light.

So let the moment be your shrine,

with tide and breath in perfect flow.

The sea is yours, the stars align—

no place to be, and nowhere to go.

 

No Place Was Safe

The universities were the next battleground.

Once bastions of learning and debate, they had become theaters of war—places where knowledge was drowned out by chaos, where reason had no place amid the deafening chants and violent outbursts. The agitators had been deployed there with precision, their numbers swelling overnight. Classes were canceled as lecture halls were overrun. Professors who dared to teach were shouted down, their words lost beneath an orchestrated symphony of rage. Those who refused to yield were harassed, doxxed, and threatened until they had no choice but to retreat.

Libraries, once quiet sanctuaries of thought and discovery, were now occupied zones. Bookshelves were overturned, texts deemed “problematic” were burned or shredded in the name of some vague, ever-shifting cause. Students who merely wanted to learn found themselves trapped in a storm of forced ideology, their futures held hostage by the mobs that patrolled the halls.

And the administrators? They folded like cheap paper, too weak to resist, too afraid to stand against the tide. Some tried to appease the rioters, offering endless concessions, only to be met with more demands, more chaos. Others simply vanished, resigning in disgrace, leaving their institutions to be picked apart like carcasses in the sun.

The message was clear: no place was safe. Not the streets, not the markets, not the very halls of education. Society was unraveling, thread by thread, and the people were left with two choices—submit to the madness or risk becoming its next victim.

And in the shadows, the architects of this chaos watched, waiting for the moment when the exhausted and broken masses would beg for order—any order. Even if it meant surrendering the last remnants of their freedom.

 

Temple by the Sea

The pine trees bend, but do not break,

Their needles dance, their roots awake.

The garden stones, both smooth and wise,

Hold echoes of the shifting skies.

At dawn, the mist drapes o’er the land,

Cool fingers drawn by nature’s hand.

The koi drift slow in mirrored gold,

Beneath a world both new and old.

The temple bell, with voice so deep,

Calls out to those who wake from sleep.

Its sound dissolves in morning haze,

Like time itself, like fleeting days.

The wind moves through the hollow reeds,

It sings of life, it sings of need.

Yet here within, all wants are few—

The earth provides, the sky is blue.

A single monk sweeps fallen leaves,

Each stroke a gift, for none deceives.

To clear the path, to calm the mind,

To leave no trace, yet be aligned.

And when the dusk turns waves to ink,

The temple glows as lanterns blink.

The moon bows low, the tide retreats,

And silence reigns where land and sea meet.

So let the world’s great troubles be,

Beyond this shrine, beyond this sea.

For in the hush of salted air,

We walk, we breathe—we are, we were.

 

Only Just Begun

The first battles were waged in whispers, in quiet meetings beneath the ruins of fallen cities. Scattered groups of survivors, once too fearful to resist, began to share stories of defiance. They spoke of the past—not the false history the corrupt had rewritten, but the truth of what had been stolen. Freedom, the very essence of civilization, had not been lost in a single moment. It had been chipped away, piece by piece, traded for hollow promises of safety and order.

Now, there was neither safety nor order—only suffering.

The Crusaders understood that their war was not just against the tyrants who had let the West fall, nor the warlords who now ruled in their place. Their true enemy was the system of control, the chains that had bound their ancestors long before the collapse. Freedom was not granted by rulers; it was taken by those strong enough to demand it.

And so, the fight evolved. What began as revenge turned into a mission, a reckoning for the generations robbed of their birthright. The Crusaders did not merely seek to survive. They sought to reclaim the lost spirit of a people who had once fought for their own destiny.

With every skirmish, every liberated outpost, the fire of freedom spread. What remained of the old world’s technology was salvaged and repurposed—not for control, as the elites had used it, but to spread the truth. The written word, banned by the tyrants, returned in secret texts and spoken tales. The ideals of free thought, of self-rule, were whispered from ear to ear until they became roars of defiance.

Enemies arose on all sides. The remnants of the old regime, now clinging desperately to their illusion of power, labeled the Crusaders as terrorists, as radicals, as savages unfit for civilization. The warlords and gangs who had carved out their own brutal empires resisted, knowing that true freedom would mean their end. Even among the people, there were those who feared what was coming—those too broken by years of servitude to believe in the possibility of another way.

But the Crusaders did not stop.

They stormed the strongholds of the powerful, tearing down the symbols of oppression. They freed the imprisoned, armed the willing, and taught those who had forgotten how to fight. Each victory brought more into their ranks, men and women who realized that they were not alone in their suffering—that the world did not have to be as it was.

And in time, the world began to change.

Freedom was no longer just a memory; it became a force as tangible as steel, as unyielding as fire. The Crusaders were not just reclaiming land; they were reclaiming the right to think, to speak, to live without a master’s hand at their throat. The battle would be long, and the scars would remain, but for the first time in decades, there was hope.

The West had fallen, but its people would rise again. Not under the rule of kings or politicians, but as free men and women who had earned their place in the world.

The Crusades were not over. They had only just begun.

 

The New Crusades

The West had fallen. Not in a single, cataclysmic event, but through a slow, rotting decay of hubris and corruption. The great cities, once beacons of progress, had crumbled into lawless ruins, their streets overrun by crime and despair. The people, for so long pacified by lies and empty promises, found themselves abandoned by the very leaders who had sworn to protect them. Politicians had become nothing more than grifters, parasites who fed on the last vestiges of a dying civilization, selling their people’s future for wealth and power.

What remained was ruin. The world had regressed into a second Dark Age, where knowledge was lost, and might made right. Gangs ruled the streets where laws had once reigned. The strong took what they wanted, while the weak either perished or served. Those who still remembered what civilization had once been clung to scraps of history, whispering of a time when justice meant something.

But despair did not reign forever. As the suffering deepened, so too did the will to fight. From the ashes of the fallen nations, a new movement began to rise—one that did not seek negotiation or compromise. The time for words had long passed. What the West had lost in complacency, it would reclaim in steel and fire. And so, the Crusades returned.

This was no holy war in the name of gods or kings. This was a war of survival, a war to take back what had been stolen. Across the broken land, warriors gathered—not soldiers of forgotten nations, but men and women who had nothing left to lose. They armed themselves with whatever they could find: rusted swords, scavenged rifles, makeshift armor crafted from the ruins of their past.

They rode under no single banner, but they fought with a single purpose: to reclaim the world that had been taken from them. They marched through the broken streets, through the wastelands of shattered cities, bringing swift justice to the corrupt, the tyrants, and the parasites that had bled civilization dry. Their battle cries echoed through the night, shaking the ruins with the fury of the forgotten.

The old order had led the world into ruin. The new order would rise from its ashes. And this time, the people would not be so easily deceived. The Crusades had begun again—not for a god, not for a nation, but for the very soul of the fallen West.

 

Disruption

The streets were no longer safe—not because of crime in the traditional sense, but because of something far more insidious. Paid agitators were everywhere, dispatched like a plague to disrupt the lives of ordinary citizens. They flooded grocery stores, blocking aisles and creating chaos at checkout lines. They staged riots at fuel stations, turning every gas run into a potential battleground. They obstructed traffic, surrounding cars with snarling faces and slogans that changed by the day, each one carefully designed to incite anger and despair.

The goal was never justice, nor reform, nor even protest in its true form. It was disruption. The kind that ground daily life to a halt and made people long for order—any order, no matter how oppressive. Fear crept into the hearts of the populace like a sickness, and soon, they whispered among themselves about how things used to be. How life was once predictable. How they used to walk their streets without the risk of being confronted, harassed, or attacked for no reason other than existing.

But that was the point. The architects of this new chaos wanted people to feel helpless, to long for someone—anyone—to step in and take control. They wanted to wear them down, make them beg for relief, so that when the answer finally came, wrapped in the guise of authority, the people would welcome it with open arms.

And so, the agitators continued their work. Paid well, protected by those in power, and untouchable by the law. They had become the foot soldiers of a revolution that was never meant to be for the people, but against them.

 

Grifter's Last Stand

The grand halls of the Capitol, once echoing with rehearsed speeches and empty promises, had become the stage for a full-blown panic. The air was thick with desperation as career politicians, their pockets lined with taxpayer money funneled through shell agencies and bloated bureaucracies, scrambled to preserve their cash cow.

The reform movement had started as a whisper—a quiet demand for accountability—but it had grown into a storm. Auditors, armed with ledgers and subpoenas, marched through government offices like an occupying force, peeling back layers of corruption so deep that even seasoned grifters were caught off guard.

For decades, these agencies had existed as nothing more than glorified money pits, siphoning billions under the guise of public service. Fake initiatives, redundant programs, and consulting contracts that led nowhere—each was a carefully crafted scheme to reward allies and secure endless reelection funds. Now, with every audit, another lifeline was severed.

The reaction from the guilty was as predictable as it was pathetic. In the Senate chamber, filibusters dragged on for hours, not out of principle, but out of sheer terror. Red-faced politicians spewed nonsense, stalling votes with rants about manufactured crises and impending doom should their pet agencies be shut down. In the streets, paid agitators—riled up by backdoor deals with activist groups—were unleashed, their chants conveniently aligning with the interests of those who had looted the nation for years.

The media, ever obedient to the hand that fed it, parroted the narrative of “dangerous extremism” against those daring to expose the corruption. Talking heads screeched about "attacks on democracy" while conveniently ignoring the fact that the agencies in question had done nothing but drain the public dry.

But the people had seen too much. They had watched their wealth disappear, their communities crumble, and their futures be sold off piece by piece. The reformers were relentless, and no amount of screaming, stalling, or manufactured outrage could stop what was coming. The golden era of unchecked grift was crumbling, and the rats in the system knew it.

 

Serenity on the Open Sea

Upon the tide so vast and free,

A tallship sails with quiet grace,

Her canvas full, her bow cuts clean,

Through sapphire waves in calm embrace.

The wind it whispers through the shrouds,

A lullaby both soft and deep,

The masthead points to drifting clouds,

As sun-kissed waters rock to sleep.

The salted air, so fresh and pure,

Doth fill the lungs with ocean's breath,

A sailor's heart beats strong and sure,

As worries fade to peaceful death.

The creaking timbers hum a tune,

A song of journeys yet untold,

Beneath the watchful eye of moon,

The sea bestows her gifts of gold.

No tempest roars, no breakers call,

Just endless blue in boundless sweep,

A world where time itself stands still,

Where dreams and waking silence meet.

At dusk, the sky ignites with fire,

A canvas brushed in crimson hue,

The ship sails on, her heart inspired,

Beneath a vault of starry blue.

O gentle sea, so vast, so wide,

Your tranquil arms embrace the brave,

Who ride the wind and trust the tide,

Upon your ever-rolling wave.

 

Solitude of the Sea

The waves arrive, then fade away,

no voice to call, no need to stay.

A breathless hush, a whispered sigh,

beneath the vast and empty sky.

The moonlight shimmers, cold and bright,

a silver path through endless night.

Yet none may walk, nor none may be,

the keeper of this silent sea.

The rocks stand firm, the tides still turn,

old lessons lost, no soul to learn.

The echoes crash, then fade to none—

a song unsung, a race unrun.

No footprints grace the shifting sand,

no grasping mind, no reaching hand.

Only the gull, adrift, alone,

rides on the wind, a ghost unknown.

No past to mourn, no fate to find,

no weight of hope, no tethered mind.

The sea just is—no less, no more,

no distant dream, no distant shore.

And so it waits, untouched, untamed,

with nothing held and none to blame.

It needs no watcher, seeks no name,

forever vast, forever same.

A drifting soul may stand and stare,

yet silence speaks—no wisdom there.

The sea does not, the sea will be,

a boundless thought, a thought set free.