these streets are vacant, devoid of chatter, of hagglings, of fleets and flaring, just formidable fronts anticipating flaws. i know you feel it, you feel it deep down your gut, a gestation for stranger things—a little too eerie for the faint at heart. you feel the angst, the birth pangs earth’s groaned for since the deluge, since brimstone blazed the ancient world to birth anew. maybe it culminates to this, the advent confounded many and well, only a handful are waiting for the end. as for me¿
i’m sauntering, woke, unravelling a simulation staged for a mighty gust. i wonder if others will arise, if the upside down kingdom will swallow whole the essence of sleepy sheeple to empower energies in smoldering pits. there’s a plea for patience within people’s confines, i’ve seen fear rattle souls. there’s prospects of being pawns to a pandemic predicted from time pasts. in that prophecy—a third of mankind is bound to succumb. but maybe
there’s a purpose in these peculiar times, perhaps the peace we’ve lost is from wars waged in our minds. and we can find ourselves in the pieces we misplaced, we can begin again.
yours truly,
Shirlin
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