Source: snappedbyjc
Take the night to the limit,
The road to its end,
The sun to its setting.
Leave no stone unturned,
No drama incomplete,
No sentence unwritten.
Take the road to the limit,
To a future yet to happen,
To times better spent.
Raise a glass to adventure,
A smile to the road taken,
Leaving no road untaken.
What might the near future hold?
Buildings of concrete and stone.
We might be traveling by flying cars,
Far above the trees and among the stars.
Sunlight will only be a reflection,
A lighted saber for our protection.
This future might be hard to bear,
A future that might be too near.
The sun will shine again.
We will survive.
where is everyone? by travisanderson
What might the future hold?
Buildings of concrete and stone.
Travel by flying cars.
Trees of green foam.
Sunlight only a reflection.
Lighted sabers for protection.
A future hard to bear,
A future all too near.
Face forward
And never behind
To the world
We left behind.
Don’t look back.
Drive.
Face forward
To the future.
The moon is distant.
The stars keep their distance.
Trees and grass retreat from sight.
The ice caps recede daily.
Soon they will be memories
of the destruction, we have wrought.
Look up to the sky
and see the magic.
Watch the stars sparkle
as they drift on a dark blanket.
Let the moon’s glimmer
shine on your skin.
Dream of the future.
Hope for the best.
Your hopes and dreams
will lead you in the right direction.
Sherbrooke Forest | By Penny Whetton
THE FALLEN
Tree branches bend,
scarred by age.
Beaten by the storm,
many hit the ground
amid piles of leaves.
Without a proper burial,
no one mourns their loss.
The fallen won’t be forgotten
as replacements take root
in the shade of the tall trees.
Sunshine filters through the forest,
lighting the way for the future.
Secrets buried in the sand hold
hidden memories of lives gone by.
Unearthed remains tell a story.
Dug up pottery paint a picture.
Lives in the past merge with the future.
Differences become insignificant.
Time becomes transient.
The cycle begins again.
Days flow into weeks.
Weeks into years.
Years to centuries.
Centuries fly by.
Nothing is new.
The cycle continues.
Our past becomes our future.
Until the sands of time bury our existence.
Then our future becomes our past.
And the cycle begins again.
Smoke fills my lungs,
I stand strong.
Petals to the sky,
I fulfill my destiny.
Tears burn holes
never to be filled.
Demons in my soul
leave scars never repaired.
Each sigh forces a step back.
Each storm bends my stem a bit more.
I persevere through the rain,
the sleet,
the snow.
I yield to the sun and the moon.
I take what is given.
I replace when I’m able.
Though dry are my leaves,
I lift them to the sky.
Though parched are my lips,
I face the sun.
Smoke burns my eyes,
but I see clear.
I bow my head.
SUSANNE LEIST 