A New Beginning.

Are you crying?  Said the Spirit to the girl by the stream.

Yes, said the girl.

Are you hurt?


Then why are you crying?  It asked.  Can I help you?

No, said the girl.  You can’t help me.


Because I’m dying.

Is that all?




Death is, sometimes, a new beginning.


Is the chaos and destruction,

That takes the lives of those we love,

And turns the world upside down,

Turning it into “painfulness”

The colour of blood and water.

The Game of War.

The game of war,

Is a deadly philosophy

That strategizes how

To take lives.

It is not a game,

That is played half-heartedly.

It is not a play to sit back,

And enjoy, leisurely.

Do you know the pain of war?

The suffering the comes,

After the victory has been won?

The pieces are put together,

But no in the same shape,

Or order,

It’s too hard,

To smooth the edges,

That have been too damaged,

To be,


But yet,

The pieces fit,

Like it should be,

The damage,

Disguised as something else.

They call it the new world,

The new country,

The new land.

But how can it be,

Thriving with riches,

When the land is marked by,

The ever present,

Game of war.

But there is the art of war,

That is not meant to harm,

To maim,

To kill.

It is a philosophy,

To save lives,

Wherever possible

To gain the most,

Whenever possible.

But it gets misinterpreted,

And becomes,

The game of war.

It’s a terrible game,

Meant for the better,

And sometimes ends in the better,

If only,

It wasn’t the in between moments,

That remained

Like when the girl looks back,

Thinking she heard her lover’s voice.

Or when the mother stops cutting carrots,

Because she feels a shiver down her back.

Or when the baby cries,

And the mother doesn’t know why.

This is the game of war.

This is the pain,


And unseen.

Still, they play the game of war,

Playing with human lives.

It’s just a game to them,

A game of politics,

And hidden agendas,

For profit,

Not loss.

They want to gain,

As much as possible,

When they play,

The Game of War.

The Woman In Black.


The woman in black,

Has no smile.

She is cold as ice,

As she watches time

Passing by.

With impassive eyes,

And high cheek bones,

She checks her watch,

An old fashioned quartz,

With a silver frame

And gold hands.

She double checks the time

With piercing black eyes.

The woman in black,

Steps forward,

One step at a time,

Adjusting her veil,

As she reaches down

And pulls the soul,

Shining and glowing,

Waiting to leave,

To push,

To find a way,

Out of the body.

She twirls it

With a graceful hand,

Gently pushing it,

Into the glass jar.

She checks her watch,

With knowing eyes.

One more death,

One more soul,

She adds to the cloud.

Her heart is still,

Without an emotion,

Waiting again,

For the next time

The next soul,

That’s life has ended.

She walks the world,

Her dress,

Of cobwebs and lace,

Drags along the ground,

Catching dead twigs,

And fallen autumn leaves.

The woman in black,

Checks her watch,

With cold eyes.

Her job never ended,

One after the other,

She collected the souls,

Put them in the glass,

Until the moment

She gave them to the Lady of Time.

The Lady would thank,

The woman in black,

As she returned the souls to time,

So that they could live again,

Be collected again,

By the woman in black,

In a never ending cycle,

That is known as life.

She’s not a heartless woman,

She just has no soul,

Nor even a beginning that she can remember,

Because she is a creation,

Like the Lady of Time,

To live in an endless cycle,

Constantly gathering souls,

And preparing them for the next life.

She is the woman in black,

Or as she is better known,

The Lady of Death.

Alone in Fear.

They suffocated her so she pushed them away.  She wanted some space.  She lied, cancelled, pretended to forget.  Just like that, one by one, they went away and she was left alone.  It was perfect, brilliant, happiness.  No one bothered her.  Just like she wanted.

So why then are there red tracks in the bathroom?

Red wine and roses.


She came home to red wine and roses.  Wine topped the tables in half drunk glasses and  roses dropped petals up the stairway.  Clothes littered the floor.  A shirt with red lipstick covered the top of the staircase.  Moans escaped the bedroom.  Hot lust in motion, ignorant of anything else.  She raises the gun – shoots.


[I don’t know why, but I felt like writing a revenge story.]

Dead man walking.


The corpses everywhere stank of day old death.  It had been a catastrophe, a mistake, a suicide mission.  But for honour, these men had given their lives, valiantly, and fought the fight to death.  In the shadow of death, a figure walks.  Limp, and dislocated, it slowly made its way west.  He was after blood.