Vista Point

A quiet vista. Only the winds dramatize

The serene atmosphere. Trees are caught

Baring themselves whilst changing dye

With the passing time spell. The remainder

Of the world is hushed, unchanged and

Unmoved. The thrilling pacification of

Nature is forgotten by the soaring

Machines speeding through the vigilantly

Constructed streets, one by one. All

Left here is a utopia disregarded.


Suddenly, a figure emerges.

‘Tis but a small boy who seems

To have discovered the comfort

Of the soft terrain. He races through

The field, the sun reflecting his

Beaming face. He tumbles down and

Embraces the earth’s warmth with

His body. And there he lies, hours on end.


But to every day there is a night.

A burning light fades, and leaves him blinded.

And he, the young lively boy, retreats to

His father’s home. He kisses the earth,

Nearly praising the terrain. Now,

He leaves. His mind believes him safe

Yet his heart shreds in terror. He lives

In his nightmare, his dream now over.

He shuts his eyes and prays. He cannot

Stop them from consuming him—

inside to out. Yet he patiently endures,

For light is but a few hours away.


The night is long, the night is rough.

The deathly silence is stricken by

Shrilling shrieks staking the fatally

Heavy heavens. He reclines in a lifeless

Motion, too weary to carry on, to

Save himself. His cries which were

Never heard will never be heard.

And so he spares himself his futile

Tears. It was almost over. But just that.


And he returns. To his bliss. The

Pastures which patiently await his

Arrival chuckle jubilantly at their returning

companion. And he reciprocates. His arms

Extended as he swings in circles until he

Becomes so uncontrollably faint that

He cascades down. His body there lies motionless

Yet alive. He sleeps, his heart and soul at rest.

The world to him what was so little

Is now so much. Ceaseless and perpetual.

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