Forgive a waft of the newborn land
The sun beats down on me ever so slightly
And I can't hide this sentiment
So engulfed in the purest of bliss
Lord, thank you
Thank you greatly for the sun's warm kiss

The trees no longer stand tired, in longing
But rather dance brilliantly in their newfound attire
The expired leaves on the ground mislead
As they rest only as the last remebrance of a winter's retire
And the birds sing their songs as if all day long
Celebrating a spring so welcomed
Even the breeze, sweet savory breeze
Whistles chimes in perfect time
Oh, blessed are we for such unwarranted peace
Serenity in the form of the blossoms, the leaves
The trees to surround us in shady bloom
The birds to sing our praises in harmonious tune
The noon sun to embrace us in a passionate grasp
And the Lord to relieve us from winter at last.

Numero Uno...

Time is fallible. The clock’s rhythm tempered with erroneous ticks and tocks, tweaks of once beautiful synchronization now seem merely relative. The pendulum careless, now thrashes through the thickened air, missing recklessly its defined beat. All the while, shattering glass releases timeless grains. They flee. Comfort found in a liberating bombardment of jagged edges and so infinite an explosion of speckled morsels. Frozen, the master’s hands do not waver. Time is to rest forever...

Number Two...

The snow slowly dissipated, leaving its memory only in the muck of browned grass and expired leaves. And in this continuous shift that nature so pleasantly allows, my eyes never once blink. As rain takes the place of frozen crystals and sleek snow, not once do I forgive the taste on a tongue so thirsting for a breath of spring. I’ve seen the first flower penetrate the cool ground with so delicate a vigor that the angels themselves must have played role in its elegant blossoming. Each day another dew drop fetches the heavenly aroma of which I’ve awaited, and the sun provides my necessary proof: spring has begun, and the daisies are ever nearer.

In these marvelous days, I am perpetually glued to our paned window, looking curiously at the grace that God has provided for our frozen, winter hearts. Oh, how lovely the world is as it sheds its frigid cocoon for a most becoming gown of emerald. Shades so green brightly taunt the eyes: torture held by desire felt deep within. These luminescent hues break the barriers of reality and gracefully escape in fantastical fashion, tantalizing the soul as it wishes for a mere taste of these intense tinges. And the oceanic gleam of the lucid sky; white clouds, pure, waltz one with another, untainted as the heavens shelter them so. The birds, high, shine engulfed in deep reds and violets. How the spirit does bring forth such an overwhelming ecstasy. But oh, no blemish of hue nor streak of passionate tint shall compare to the golden heart of the daisies.

There is a touch of magic in the sun’s calming rays, and more evident it becomes as the days grow longer.

Empty hours bear down on an already heavy heart
Minute by minute, blame melds in malignant minds
The hourglass shattered
And the grain inside readily flees
As the confinement of time's lock
Presses ever harder on those obedient to the clock
And its ticking rhythm shrieks so harshly
As men bow down to so abstract an oppression
The aggression possessing the minds
Of so many confessing their instructional duties
To the swinging pendulum in synchronized time
All together now
Everyone
Please the needs of the mastering eternity
Allow all else out of body and mind
Find the ways of alarm
Charm your way into the tickers great glass
And rest there imprisoned in the arms of father time.

I'd like to think of thoughts as little rubber balls.

Bouncing around inside your head...

Sometimes they fly with beauty and grace...

Often times they bounce off of others, perfect and harmonious - as harmonious as rubber balls can be, I guess...

Now and then, it seems that some appear randomly, as if out of thin air...

Normally they are wonderful. Entertaining. They make you smile.

But what happens when one hits you, say, in the eye.

Sometimes you wish that they would just go away.

But when you rid yourself of all those rubber balls in an attempt to claim your peace once again...

It is then a self created boredom that drives you mad...

So... yay for rubber balls!

Let me say that The Art of Imperialism is the name of the game, and Bontus is our country... ooooh, the irony...

In times of intense warfare and aggravated arms races, the necessity for an outlet other than that proposed by law becomes imperative in order for diplomatic nations to reside upon the same globe. Under lawful jurisdiction, countries of immense power grow meaningless, as their efforts and strides toward establishing a great nation break before their eyes by the inflicted wounds of their vile enemies. The black market implanted itself into the Art of Imperialism to benefit the worthy and honorable with gracious hopes focused on the constitution of a free land, moral in spirit and grateful in nature. Those in need come with substantial desires for the justice of the hardworking and loyal to be served through the marvelous and merciful works of the market. The country of Bontus wishes to prevail with tremendous integrity and strength to promote the greater welfare possible when nations strive to accomplish their goals and become the best that they could ever be; however, under recently instated circumstances, vulnerability overwhelms the nation, thus Bontus begs of aid from such a philanthropic establishment as the black market.
The borders of Bontus overflow with the sweat, tears, and blood that its citizens poured into founding a dignified land. Ingenious strategic plots and plans promoted themselves through the countless hours and immeasurable efforts exerted from Bontus. The pain pressed upon such an emulous nation, one only wishing to make its mark in this cruel, fictitious world, easily could make ill the most iron-stomached man; the crooked dealings of various Bontus oppositions would cause the most cold-hearted of men to ignite furiously into a rage of rabid flames. Far from now lies the time for Bontus to wave the bullet riddled white flag, as the ideals and desires of the nation still remain strong. The fate of the citizens lie now in the hands of the black market, who hopefully understands the unscrupulous position that the rodents of the world threw at Bontus. To let such corruption continue unpunished would contradict the morality and mildness that the black market established itself around.
A topic close to the heart of many previous and exemplary history students, the work done by Bontus so benevolently should not act as reason for punishment. Plans and strategies prove mandatory in such scenarios; therefore, the prospect of rewarding the efficient nation should prevail over frivolous desires to rid the world of the strong. The stamina of Bontus must not diminish, and the help of the black market can, without question, ensure the country’s stability.
Please look upon Bontus with a merciful heart. The deal currently under constructionacts as perhaps the sole most important in imperialism history. Forever grateful the nation of Bontus will remain, as their current existence depends so heavily upon the kind and generous black market and its supreme leader. In concluding, to all opposing the use of the black market: “All is fair in love and war.”