Poetry

Hollow Wood

A leaf falls into the pond. Splash. The swift wind in the breeze, Weaving in the warm glow. The visions that we immerse ourselves in, We make ourselves to be made of. To go to sleep and never wake up, To wake up having never gone to sleep.

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Novels

The last stand

The sound of the flickering light in the room festered until the lamp stabalized. Banging sounded from a nearby echo in a corridor somewhere. It was followed by a louder more imposing smash. It didn't stir any of the soldiers. The remnants of a once strong regiment was now down to 20 men and women.… Continue reading The last stand