Archive | June 3, 2011

(originally from May 2008)

Her is another short story written to songs, this one is to Linkin Park’s album Minutes to Midnight. If you know it you’ll notice a phrase here or there that should be familiar. My last one of these was to Don McLean and funnily enough it had the same damn subject matter. Go figure!

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A black wind sweeps through, looking dissatisfied at its destruction. Cold and alone the world trembles in its grip, and the sightless stare through the dim purple haze that rules the days. Heartless, the weeks creep past in silent disarray, leaving nothing behind but aching memories and bitter tears that fall uncounted to the dust beneath the blackened feet and twisted limbs. This is the new world order, this is the future, this is the apocalypse.

And how they rushed to meet it. How they hurried forth with smiling eyes and shining faces, arms open to greet the technological wonders that flowed from a seemingly endless fountain of prosperity. Then, the prosperity ended and still they craved more, pressing and demanding, pushing and meddling, and to what did it lead? Now, on the brink of the world the few stand, praying for death and crawling through the dead.

Truth hangs in the spoken lies and mumbled words; doubt disguised as faith and despair as hope. Voices lift against the howl of the wind and make promises that they can never keep; their words banish regrets and promise the stars to those who will listen. And, like sheep, they listen Their ears so dull with the pain of the former silence, so in need of some escape that they fall into the dark traps laid by the new wolves.

And the wolves smile as they gather the remnants together and work to rebuild their former kingdoms. Their false smiles and empty words bring them all crawling from the darkest corners, leading them forward and into their brighter future. Their lips utter false love, while their hands stay in their pockets, afraid to touch the unwashed masses. Afraid of being infected and soiled with their weak decay.

And the sheep bleat and bow. They follow blindly and they do as they are told and generations slip away. The sky slowly heals its wounds, the ice recedes and the ash blows away in the merciless wind until life returns and history has passed away into legend, a macabre old religion to be debated by the enlightened, stories to mock, not heed nor listen to, lessons fallen through the cracks of science and left to wither beneath the floor, forgotten.

The world marches forward bravely and wolves watch from their hills, smiles on their faces, herding the sheep into the snares of their own making. And while the sheep are sacrificed, still the wolves survive, bathing in the blood of those who are beneath them, bloated with their greed and hunger for power, always marching forward, always pushing them into the brighter tomorrow, never changing, for where there are sheep there will always be wolves.

And so they rush forward, following their false profits and greeting the future with open arms, their eyes smiling and their faces shining as they embrace what should be theirs…

And so it goes again.

A black wind sweeps through, looking dissatisfied at is destruction….

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And now that I have brought a ray of sunshine I am off!