Aliens Attack

I’m on holiday, and since I have no other PC available, I decided to whip out the old Alienware. The fan might be loud and the keyboard might glow for absolutely no reason at all, but I still love it.

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Ghost Ship With Mortal Chains

A ship sailed clear sunny waters
Wondering when words would bring it to life again
It waited out the sun as it gave way to its orange tired self
The words would have to come soon
To maintain efficiency

The hull was far from rotting
The deck bristling with order
Or at least pressed uniforms
Clipped smiles
And stiff salutes

Everything was rightly prosperous
Even lovely letters did what they were told
Transporting themselves to the proper locales
At the right time, the perfect hour

Meanwhile, the ship sat suspended
In a sea of conflicting orders
But uniforms saved the day
Ordered drills and cooked meals
Sending steely glares across the waves

There was no firm destination though
Just the name of a remote place
And rumors of ballistic bliss

Shadows Fall Across the Lake and the Church

It was youthful spirits this time
That disrupted the flow of reality
They faltered before
Quivered in the early morning light
But their counterparts across the ocean
Seized the day and the ballot box

Amid various abuses
People were threaded
Through the eyes of needles
Reduced in size to make way for
“The next thing to sweep the nation”

An immortal thing ebbed and flowed
Its cup runneth over
Except at the square of existence
That contained the lake and the church

The thing stopped just short of the square
Wondering about that strange language
Between the church and the lake
And why seditious whispers
Ruled the day
Scared, the thing skirted the square
Sensing something beyond its grasp

The Glasses Are Coming Off

Later, then
Put off the snowman
The agents clutching rolled-up newspapers
Especially the phone cords leading to an ivory tower

Of course the old man
Twirls them about his fingers
Rubbing them against beady eyes
Pondering betrayal
Sensing more ties being severed

It was all his fault
The man in the fine white palace
Ignoring the land
where an agent’s shadow
Still looms

Shame was forbidden among titans
But there it was
Glittering like sun-drenched snow

Later

Fire cleanses the ranger

Every forest needs a fire
To prune the excess

A ranger comes down the hill
Choking a hose
Arcing it heroically

The cabin just stood there, aflame
No one was screaming within
No signs of hysteria
Of impending grace
They’ll be rewarded in…
…But he couldn’t worry about that

Hoses could only stretch so far
That was a legitimate thing to worry about
As the feral flames rose majestically to the sky
Maybe the stream would provide solace
Stave off grace for a little while

And so he went to the river
And returned to a husk being consumed by fire
Nothing to worry about
Except the family members of ghosts

Rangers didn’t have the finesse of surgeons
Nor the masks that hid sincerity
Or even the prestige that gave them a noble air
What did rangers have that would offer security
To those being spoken to?

But sometimes sentinels of the wild need a bit of calamity
In order to wake them up
Shoving them into the real world
Injecting authenticity back into the urban centers
Enduring the wails of broken hearts
Shaking the hands of mayors
Whatever was necessary

Proving that
Pine trees, mountains, even raccoons
Gave a ranger a peculiar grace
Not necessarily inferior to the surgeon’s
Just peculiar.

Symbiosis