ApocalypticPoet

                      The World has moved on. Bad times are on horseback. The broken road ahead's rough, It kicks up dirt and chokes me, yet I managed to keep my breath steady. It's dim and dry, but I'm able not to breathe the motor fumes hitting my face. The rusty truck comes to a sudden stop, I feel myself move forward a bit. We reach a C.M. checkpoint, and my heart skips A beat. An individual strides up to examine the bolt-bucket, he hits the sides, looks under and around, he even checks the bed of the truck for anything. And yet, he doesn't check underneath the seats. For this, I'm thankful. "You're free to pass, just be careful up

All the World's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances: And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts begin seven ages Here it was, the 'Ball of the Angels', a fitting name for such a lovely place. Pillars, lights, and greatest of all, the stage. The grand stage. wide, polished and refined like it had been cared for mere moments ago. When in reality, it had been long since it was cared for, years even. He knew exactly when the bombs dropped. The fifteenth of November, long ago, before his time. The bombs froze this place, preserved it, the day before it opened, like a giant fl

 Waves of heat cast themselves out from the city ruins, intense and powerful, it was yet another hell on earth. And though it was not as deadly as the bombs of the collapse, it resembled it, like sifting embers. It scarred the land around it, a white wall of ash filling the place thick, burning even the residing air. In the distance, faintly stood a figure, wearing armor forged from steel. Others around him watched, not entirely like the figure, but they resembled him. Yet another copy in the mythical west coast. Screams emanated themselves from the cloud, almost simultaneous, sharing pain. The steel figure sheathed his sword, and turned ro