Week 8 championship: 1. oats (7-0) vs. 2. King Ra. (4-3) \\ oats wins 5-1

oats · 04-19-2014, 01:20 AM

Sirte: A Landscape

it’s always dusk.
ever since the first bomb erupted
streets are fallen, stuck as suspended stalls of dust
you’re kept in modest bubbles, plus with Benghazi’s trouble
life’s a lawless puzzle solved between the walls of rubble.
mauled and muddled - these remnants of civilization
sitting in place of the memories of your nostalgic muzzle.

the halls you’d run through as the sun crooned to small faces
have since been captive to the shadows, reassembled as tall mazes.
long days spent in hiding turned nerves to calm patience -
same as how the sidewalks transformed to crawlspaces.
fresh air’s a psalm, nascent in the midst of burning atmosphere
the trial of survival: evoke ANYTHING to pass as fear
cuz once you become numb to the reality that happens here
you’ll face your debasement: you’re a statistician’s chandelier.

savagery in masked veneer, the static buzz of idle threats
chokes through AM frequencies while politicians sign their checks.
worse than heat, hunger, hopelessness, sheer survival’s stress -
is the boredom; how to pass the time while you wait for your untimely death?

lies are swept across the sands, creating haze as doom delivers
breath to conspiracy, an earless fiend of Truthful whispers.
you beg to be afraid again, accept what’s obviously ludicrous
you know that death is easy, unless you’re not the one who's doing it.

so you search. beyond the humble ruins left by paranoia’s message
passed limbs scattered like the land mines that deployed their severance
into unknown corners of yourself, once avoided lessons
like why does light’s absence disturb you more than noise’s presence?

***

in the building where you once learned basic letters and arithmetic
behind the boulders smoldering: a door where something mystic lives
a window to a foreign land, a scene you’d never think exists
a flash of everything you’ve ever lost or wanted - innocence

intimate, it’s just you. you want to bust through and hide among
the shade of trees, face the breeze as it carries forth the light of sun.
the infinity of possibility, imagination’s wild attempt
to summon a new world, one where you can be a child again.

Through it you see more colors than your eyes can stomach
But does it show you the truth or just divide you from it?
you try to jump in, only to feel the emptiness of pavement’s touch
no water. no grass. no colors. back to gray and dusk.
the pain of hunger, too ashamed to wonder how the pane was undressed
but you can't change the country. Instead, let us change the subject.

04-19-2014, 01:20 AM	#1
oats Steel Cut Join Date: May 2013 Posts: 5,084 Battle Record: 19-10 Accomplishments - OM HOF (2x) Champed - Fight Night LXXXIV - Art of Writing League Rep Power: 79005428	Sirte: A Landscape it’s always dusk. ever since the first bomb erupted streets are fallen, stuck as suspended stalls of dust you’re kept in modest bubbles, plus with Benghazi’s trouble life’s a lawless puzzle solved between the walls of rubble. mauled and muddled - these remnants of civilization sitting in place of the memories of your nostalgic muzzle. the halls you’d run through as the sun crooned to small faces have since been captive to the shadows, reassembled as tall mazes. long days spent in hiding turned nerves to calm patience - same as how the sidewalks transformed to crawlspaces. fresh air’s a psalm, nascent in the midst of burning atmosphere the trial of survival: evoke ANYTHING to pass as fear cuz once you become numb to the reality that happens here you’ll face your debasement: you’re a statistician’s chandelier. savagery in masked veneer, the static buzz of idle threats chokes through AM frequencies while politicians sign their checks. worse than heat, hunger, hopelessness, sheer survival’s stress - is the boredom; how to pass the time while you wait for your untimely death? lies are swept across the sands, creating haze as doom delivers breath to conspiracy, an earless fiend of Truthful whispers. you beg to be afraid again, accept what’s obviously ludicrous you know that death is easy, unless you’re not the one who's doing it. so you search. beyond the humble ruins left by paranoia’s message passed limbs scattered like the land mines that deployed their severance into unknown corners of yourself, once avoided lessons like why does light’s absence disturb you more than noise’s presence? *** in the building where you once learned basic letters and arithmetic behind the boulders smoldering: a door where something mystic lives a window to a foreign land, a scene you’d never think exists a flash of everything you’ve ever lost or wanted - innocence intimate, it’s just you. you want to bust through and hide among the shade of trees, face the breeze as it carries forth the light of sun. the infinity of possibility, imagination’s wild attempt to summon a new world, one where you can be a child again. Through it you see more colors than your eyes can stomach But does it show you the truth or just divide you from it? you try to jump in, only to feel the emptiness of pavement’s touch no water. no grass. no colors. back to gray and dusk. the pain of hunger, too ashamed to wonder how the pane was undressed but you can't change the country. Instead, let us change the subject. __________________ You should be water Last edited by oats; 04-19-2014 at 01:46 AM.