livingoakheart
Peace.
The peace of the dead.
Trees overtake the skyscrapers, and steel structures crumble to the ground in the aftermath.
Slowly, animals begin to re-enter what was once a bustling city.
And slowly, quietly, humans retake what was once their secular mecca.
Bullets, powder, rifles.
The magazine is permeated with the ozone smell of battle. For now, it is silent, but at a moment's notice I will leap to my feet to do battle.
The peace and quiet is what draws me to the room where I do war.
Piled in hidden corners of life, it shapes our lives by its very existence.
We try to ignore it or make it go away. We don't want to remember the garbage.
But it piles, piles, coloring our perceptions and changing our attitudes.
Where do we get this all cleaned up?
It mocks me.
Green and pale, it sits there, unmoving, waiting for me to attempt to take the first bite.
Ah, but once it enters my mouth--
it moves, strangling, like a live monster.
I hate kale.
writing since 2012 · 8 entries · 8 days shown up
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