The Grave Renewal

What once was freedom and idealism has passed into a gray twilight. The skies darken and the temperature drops. Dust falls from the sky like snow, covering everything, bringing about a unified landscape, blanketing all that was once different and unique.

The plants and the trees start to shrivel and shrink back into the earth. They wait for better times, when the sun will shine for them once more, and they can emerge different, improved in every way. Their dawn is long from now, and the twilight is ever present.

On the porch of a once life filled cottage, a rocking chair is covered in ash and dust. It can’t remember why it was crafted, or who it was that relied on it for rest. A calm perch amongst a world it didn’t care to look after. From the chair in recent days, it saw no more blooming flowers and trees swaying gently in the wind. Instead it saw the ever expanding hazy empire of buildings.

The last thing that shall move and stir is that of a child. He steps from the home and wanders as far as he can. The lifeless forms of his parents do nothing now. They can’t smile at him, they can’t tell him to go to bed, so that everything could be calm and normal in the morning.

He flees for safety. Instead, he is set ablaze and suffers slowly, as have all others.

He cannot remember how this came to be. The consequences he is forced to endure were not to be placed on his shoulders, but while others were content to ignore, the messes they had accumulated were not going anywhere.

Long ago, in a room, elderly men fought for the future of women and children, those two the ever more precious resources they squabbled over. To their eyes, to their suits and ties, everything was a resource.

To secure the interests of those represented in the room, the poor were sent in uniform. Over the horizon they saw a beautiful city, and then, a brief glimmer of light.

Those in the room shouted, and each syllable carried with it the weight of a dozen dead men. The intentions of those men were given different meaning.

The means to send so many to such different places, was something only they knew of, and only they controlled. They would shout slanderous words in an effort to rally those to their cause. Poverty for the sake of this unknown and unending substance becomes a self perpetuating cycle. It for some pointless reason, forced this dying child far off from friends and opportunity.

One tragic moment, and for this little soul, he may have well died years ago. Those with look down upon him… a wretched creature they would say. They would do nothing while his parents starved.

It could be one last moment of solace for the child, to know that those whom put him in such a terrible place are now gone. It was cast by their hand… but he just doesn’t want to die…

And neither did they.

As the ash and dust fill his lungs and eyes, he does not cling to the specter of vengeance, and he does not wallow in victory or pride. He thinks of his parents, and wishes that he could muster up enough energy to cry.

The empire of the city is gone. An empire driven by imaginary numbers and value. The trees are hiding from the fall of this empire, for they know that the footprint will last far longer than they’d wish. It will in time fade though, and they will cling to it. After so much time passes, and the sun punctures the cold sky and brings warmth and light with it again, the trees won’t even remember the face of the rotted child as he tried in vain to keep breathing.

The room where the elderly men argued will become a meadow. No bickering of fictional resources and population control will remain. Instead, dear will forage though it, and the birds will nest in the trees and sing.

The sky will brighten a world long forgetful of the sins of the past, it will forget that the last one left to shoulder the burden of ignorance, was one that could do nothing but suffer for it.

The spot where his bones slowly melted back into the earth will be covered by dirt and grass and little else. It was once a road… and now, it is nothing.

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