On the crimson sunset
horizon a shadow walks. The destination is unclear as it meanders
stopping here and there, stooping to pick at some unseen curiosity in
it's path. Nighttime darkens, the shadow obscures.
Remote viewers, they
pervade themselves, tasked with unveiling the secrets of tomorrow.
Learned to interpret their strange surroundings in a land of fantasy.
They went to many times and locals, not always on our earth. Past
2024 they could not budge. At least they never told.
Pockets were left, at
times in places least suspected, of life. Pockets where the winds
had not descended to tint with their radioactive recklessness the
juice from stems and bugs. Pockets where bacterium still lavished,
the odd mole still dug to chew a root.
Blame is hard to
attribute. Mother earth will bloom again, some day. Minds of
creatures with brains subtle enough to undermine their own
achievements, geared for tribalism which flourished for the odd
millions of years. Minds of creatures who learned too much for their
passions to eschew, blew themselves and mother earth to smithereens.
Years had passed, those
journeys around a sun unfazed by the niceties of awareness. Maybe.
Years in which the radioactivity had mellowed, skeletons of an age
gone by obliterated by wind erosion, picked clean by blowing sands.
Cities, those piles of rubble, hiding the skeletons, places to avoid
if you where one of the few, if you where one of the few unlucky
ones, hidden in one of mother earth's pockets. She kept things in
her pockets.
Morning comes. The
shadow walks on stooping to pick at some unseen curiosity in it's
path. Does it look for pockets to eek out a sustenance, to cherish
the resourcefulness of mother earth? Or does it simply meander,
forlorn?
