by charlie shuck
Prescience Fiction
I.“ Long Live the Fighters”
Friction forces motion slowly to a stop. Gravity compels you down, think quickly or you will drop. A movements end begins the winds of a brand-new circling‘ round the fire. The audience abides and listens closely, fighting hard against the late hour.
A circumstance takes your hand and shows you to the door.
The knob is cold, the hand is warm, your mind begins to soar.
Come one, come all! Come one, come all! Come and hear the news about today! Come and hear the news about tomorrow. The times have changed, but still they remain the same. And, yes, the times will change again, but man will still be insane.
Back and forth the volley goes, and fickle physics won.
The golden path can not be found, it fell into the sun. The Divided God is on the sands, the desert is reborn.
Heresy will forge a key come from the scattering.
Ya Hya Chouhada! Ya Hya Chouhada! Long Live the Fighters! Long Live the Fighters! Coming from the edge of time, looking for a change. And climbing through the tides of skies wondering,“ does love remain?” Particular events condense, converge and form into an image. But Fate, complaisant, looking on falls back into an endless slumber.
II.“ The Morning is Holy”
Complicating, illuminating, cross fading your whims of perceiving.
Systematic, no longer stagnant, from just a fragment you’ ve become whole.
The morning is holy to the night. The evening brings an ending to the days worthy plight.
Motion answers friction with an engine. Gravity, get on your knees to science fiction. The mind can go anywhere with a few words of depiction.
The images begin to form and take you by the mind. Massaging and provoking all the forms of your imagination. The story lies within you, waiting to emerge from the page. Tacking shape and changing as the text stages the play.
Long Live the Writers! Long Live the Artists! Long Live the Readers! Long Live the People! Ya Hya Chouhada! Long Live the Fighters! The morning is holy to the night. The evening brings an ending to daytimes worthy plight.
Shot down from the gallows, Freedom at hand. Your life is under your command.
III.“ The Source”
Seasons end in a slow fade, it’ s hard to notice the change until it’ s here. Opportunity slips by a blind eye. An old merchant sings with devastating sighs. Young hoodlums take off their disguise and declare war on a war that they despise. The sound of drums comes over the hill. Not very long from now, blood will spill. The first bomb drops, turning all things to dust. The few survivors get up, because fight on they must.
I do declare that the world around us is awe inspiring, it can be mesmerizing.
Some where, some time, I lost my mind, hope it’ s fine. Think I dropped the rhyme. Falling down. Hear the sound. Beating drums. And just ahead the reaper sits and hums.
A knock on the door, a shoe tap on the floor, and time begins to seep into my pours.
The knob is warm the hand is cold, my mind begins to unfold.
All around I hear the sound, an ancient battle roar. I turn around to see Death’ s frown and And fall into the source.
Back and forth the volley goes and fickle physics won. The Golden Path cannot be found, it fell into the sun.
Come one, come all! Come one, come all! Come and hear the news about today! Come and hear the news about tomorrow! The battle has been won! One story ending, another just begun!
A circumstance takes your hand and shows you to the door.
For more go to www. allpoetry. com / Charlie _ Shuck