Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Left behind.

Time passes as it will, unchanged, unmoved, untouched. Yet what it leaves in its wake is everything but.

For the traveller by foot, it is as leaving one’s old shoes by the wayside. Perhaps to be used by one less fortunate, or more likely, to be forgotten.

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Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Standing stones.

The time comes soon to dance between the stones. In rings made long ago by hands of ancestors whose names and faces are long forgotten. Whose words we try as we can to remember, but through the ages have become something else.

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Lore, Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Standing to lead.

Bursting with energy and ready to act. Ready to take the world head on and take it by it’s throat. That all would submit and know that which is true. So all would feel that which is felt in this moment.

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Lore, Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

So comes the next.

When the dawn comes, the dark will fade.

A darkness which was engulfing and omnipresent, which filled the sky, the sounds and smells of the world around, will be shown as an illusion to the great flame which rises in the sky.

Continue reading “So comes the next.”