Summer, Winter, ---
He held progression in His hands.
Nothing more than a whim.
Create this today.
Destroy that tomorrow.
Nothing more than clay.
Hold on for now.
Let go; gone away.
Freezing underneath the sky.
Blues and greens; a sharp, pierced violet.
The world would be born tomorrow.
The ice would make sure of that.
Waiting, patiently, for the spark to ignite.
Meditating, concentrating; enlightened?
Burning in the ether.
Reds and oranges; a hint of yellow.
The world had ended six days ago.
The fire had been burning long before.
Moving through the flame and nothingness.
No direction, sightless; guided?
There was no heat from the inferno;
or perhaps his body could no longer feel such things.
There was no skin remaining, nor flesh;
his bones were made of metal; they endured.
© Scott Thomas Outlar
Scott Thomas Outlar burst forth from the womb of primordial ooze with thoughts of Renaissance, Revolution and Apocalyptic Revelation dancing and careening across the neuron synapses of his tender, young consciousness. He smiled in this strange new land, huffed some of the fresh oxygen, then got down to the business he'd been sent to do by hammering out rants, screeds, manifestos and wild proclamations concerning the constant, continual, progressive, evolutionary development of the human species. He continues in such a vein to this day, publishing in venues such as Dissident Voice, Ascent Aspirations, Common Line Journal, The Kitchen Poet, Loose Change Magazine, and The Fanzine. Scott can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com, and welcomes random ravings about this, that or the other, to which he'll certainly respond in kind.