Come of knowledge of this, belittle of this, of what comes in what is a blank slate. Plastically in a sliver sheet that hovers in the areas where sight in never sound. Blocking noises to that steel dome, left in darkness until the thoughts of differences, changes, only one union stands as others will fall.
That lone being, curls against the cold walks in weary awareness when sleep beg to happen. But if to sleep, those nightmares will come, and worm the brain. Feasting until only the spinal cord is bare, as the eye sockets, enlighten little within.
Yet with no sight, what the being is made of, thin hands of hunger grip each other, dulling a small pain, a self wound, along with others and ones unknown, made by a force that is far from understanding.
For as the skin shows, lines, that as a map, patches different but all the same; though the being would say it out loud. Unless wanting to be stuck again, for something that was once again, lack of understanding.
Cold, ice burning, stiffening the being, even though the being never shook from the cold. For it was something, that in time, could be known as knowledge and the easier to adapt around it.
Though, the groans of another pain, overcame it. The patches dominate over one another: some to the point of extinct or shrink in size till nothing as speaks or lone river bands.
Differences of others blend, in matters of peace or anger, are only on those insights on life. Greater good or forever more evil, lies to the heart, and rest with all of us. Changes are not far away as those who look from other worlds, but live on one. Upon soon, paths are made coming that living together or fighting against each other, is one path all walk on, choices matter another.
One union will stand. To what union is one speaking of? Think to that, on who is beyond the world from controlling, and leaving the world bleak.
Where there is peace, there is war alongside it.
As long there a mind that speaks different; welcoming change; and a one union to stand over all else: a boot to an ant, a knife to a personâ€™s back, a lie to the truth. This world will never be what all want, and even to that, results are not same.
A first world look means nothing, a growing second world is becoming, and a surviving third world is what all to spite but care.
A lone, empty tear will fall from the being, incasing all what has been a fail, and what has been a long time goal. As the patches war on another, until the being canâ€™t live on.
Mother Earth is saddened by what has become of her country children. A civil war they fight, as she weeps, looking to the sun for answers, even the crypt are most welcome at times.
â€œWhat does it matter . . .â€ The being spoke was horsed, shuddering as the patches carry on their battles within. â€œThese children will never learn . . . in that sun will lose its glow and all that bloodshed of hatred will all be for nothing. Those words they spill to one another, slur with what others, in the worst ways.â€
The being body wrench, a new wound opened with ease across the back.
â€œMother Earth gave up on us long ago. If the bitterness of each other doesnâ€™t end them, Mother Earth and Sunâ€™s glow will. And it will restart. Try again, again, and again until a one union is that of all, and not all below one.â€
Piecing back what is broken, takes forever to others words. Breaking that what had little time to heal is the easy way out.
Placing a gun to the head by oneâ€™s own hand or pointing at another.
Reaping oneâ€™s own life with a blade or to take anotherâ€™s by attacking from within.
Too old work off the young, best only mold them fit to replace after the final breath, in hopes they are just what one wants.
â€œThey will never stop. A few voices will never be enough to stop a mass confrontation. As long as those bitter differences of the path are known, the future will never be real. Only a fool with a death wish thinks.â€
A happy fool one is going to be, for they tried. Failed, but did what they could. The chain wave will follow in time. Even if itâ€™s something not everyone has.