Stream
I remember a day, a time when the spreading desert was held at bay by the burning brush of serenity. And the flaming water, sprayed thusly and so, was used correctly to aid in the surrender of nature to the immortals.
There was a time when the pockmarked skin of the elders was fresh and new, a place where the dust in the air formed rainbows of eternal glory. In the middle of the afternoon, a lawn party of gnomes broke out, normalplace in olden times.
For years now, these are no more, now the gods of technology rear their ugly heads over the barren wasteland they've created. Sharp sparks of cold fire shoot from their eyes as they survey the destruction they've caused. And the protectors, long since turned to statues in the courtyard, stand futile against the onslaught of the ages.
'Jesus,' calls the fallen bride of one such statue. 'Help us!' she yells, crying her crimson tears on the steps of doom. Wailing, she throws her arms to the sky, searching rescue and, perhaps, sweet release. God doesn't hear. His hands are full, tied with the duties of bureaucracy. No more can he spare miracles on the helpless.
Satan smiles, seeing allies in the Techno-gods, weakness in the god above. He's long since learned that a campaign without a plan is destined to fail. And so the morning star smiles, baring his teeth into the blissful sun, stretching his unstretched muscles and relaxing his ego.
A great bird soars, carrying the last king. Up it goes, higher towards the edge of tomorrow, when a flaming bolt strikes it. The bird cries, the king curses. And both come plummeting ceaselessly into the sea of nightmares.
Dark horses rear up from the waves, racing off to infest the world with the news of the king's death. And, where before bright sunflowers stood, now only nettles and thorns grow.
There was a time when the pockmarked skin of the elders was fresh and new, a place where the dust in the air formed rainbows of eternal glory. In the middle of the afternoon, a lawn party of gnomes broke out, normalplace in olden times.
For years now, these are no more, now the gods of technology rear their ugly heads over the barren wasteland they've created. Sharp sparks of cold fire shoot from their eyes as they survey the destruction they've caused. And the protectors, long since turned to statues in the courtyard, stand futile against the onslaught of the ages.
'Jesus,' calls the fallen bride of one such statue. 'Help us!' she yells, crying her crimson tears on the steps of doom. Wailing, she throws her arms to the sky, searching rescue and, perhaps, sweet release. God doesn't hear. His hands are full, tied with the duties of bureaucracy. No more can he spare miracles on the helpless.
Satan smiles, seeing allies in the Techno-gods, weakness in the god above. He's long since learned that a campaign without a plan is destined to fail. And so the morning star smiles, baring his teeth into the blissful sun, stretching his unstretched muscles and relaxing his ego.
A great bird soars, carrying the last king. Up it goes, higher towards the edge of tomorrow, when a flaming bolt strikes it. The bird cries, the king curses. And both come plummeting ceaselessly into the sea of nightmares.
Dark horses rear up from the waves, racing off to infest the world with the news of the king's death. And, where before bright sunflowers stood, now only nettles and thorns grow.