Glyphs and the Horror THEY Bring

Posted on August 21, 2011

Glyphs and the Horror THEY Bring


It permeates the core of my being, mangling my mind with its macabre madness. It has twisted my form into an incoherent mass of what once was and should not be. These visions have darkened this soul once strong and proud, deeply rooted within the world. The world weeps as it moves on and, yet, I still remain as a monument to these villainous, murderous moments. I have stood for ages slowly absorbing these atrocities of the unhindered. Of those that desecrate the covenant of God and Gaia. I curse them with the foulest blasphemies, but my voice goes unheard. Even the zephyr will not carry my decrepit message now. It, too, is weakened with its own struggle for survival against the onslaught by the constantly mobile. I pray for peace of mind, but instead find only pieces of time squandered. But what can I now do, for it is much too late and I have no strength left. Winter comes early for me this season and I feel I will not survive. Perhaps I shall join my fallen brethren if there is any mercy left in the Creator.
My story…oh, if it were only a story for I would close the tome and put it back on the shelf never to be read or heard of again…begins many seasons ago. It was a time when I was young, proud, and strong. The gales that swept across the land could not bend nor break me. I stood victorious and defiant. The earth was my strength and bearing. Nourishing my center and keeping me balanced. The creatures of the forest would come to me for comfort as well as bask in my grandeur. It was a wonderful time full of mysticism and enchantment. Of life and living. All was one and life was lived with that concept to guide us.
But then THEY came. Their strangeness immediately fell at odds with all that was sacred. THEY spoke not our language and knew not the ways that were our ways. THEY did not even try to learn those ways, but only brought their own. THEY followed the path of chaos. Of death and destruction. In our peaceful ways, we knew not how to defend ourselves and so our submission was inevitable. If only we had had the means and the momentum to fight, this story would never have occurred. But, alas, it was not our way. And now we have paid the ultimate price.
As I have stated, THEY came. THEY brought their world into ours. THEY brought their mechanized contraptions. THEY dug into the soil of the earth. I could hear the Mother cry and could do nothing. THEY razed an area near to my home on the hill and then constructed a vast wasteland that I could spy into with chambers for purposes I had not fathomed at that time. THEY placed some sort of placard before the place. It looked ominous and dismal. I did not understand the strange figures upon it. It would become horribly clear to me soon after, even if I could not comprehend what the glyphs meant.
Shortly after the completion of this wasteland, strange noises began to be heard throughout the land. Loud whirring noises and deep rumblings as their contraptions moved to and fro, fouling the air with their toxic breath and tainting the ground with their noxious leavings. My world began to tremble and crumble apart.
I began to see what the unhindered were doing. My brethren, wounded in their captivity, were being loaded into those rolling behemoths and transported to the wasteland that THEY had created. My brothers and sisters huddled together as they were herded into holding areas. I could hear their screams and cries of agony and fear from my vantage point, but those voices fell on the deaf ears of THEY and thus, were ignored. Soon, some of THEY came out of the chambers with more mechanical beasts and began to grab members of my tribe pulling them, against their will, into those chambers. Those that went in, well, their screams were legendary for the few moments that those horrific sounds existed. Their wails were louder even than the buzzing noises that came from within those same chambers. My brethren never came out. Only thin, yellowish things carried on yet another rolling contraption. A breeze carried the smell to me of those items on that contraption. I shuddered. It was the smell of my brethrens’ life force. Their blood. Those monsters had killed them!
THEY killed them! And then, THEY had corrupted their bodies into something hideous and deformed. It was unfathomable!
I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. But I was rooted to the spot. A terror filled my being and I could no longer stand proud nor strong. Weak and feeble I had become. THEY had poisoned my will to live as well as my will to give life back.
Now, many years later, I stand upon my hillside all twisted and withered. Blackened inside and out through ages of disturbing visions that I can neither stop nor control. I have no leaf left to produce. My limbs are weak and, I fear, will break at the slightest provocation. My roots ache with the heavy burden that has been thrust upon me. I have grown old before my time and am now weary. As I stand, stooped, still gazing down at that terrible place with its terrible placard from my home on the hill, I pray for my final winter to come and relieve me of the sight of these continuing nefarious moments. I can only warn any ear that will listen until that time and hope the message is understood and carried on. Perhaps your ear will do and perhaps not. Take heed. Take note.
The glyphs on the placard you ask. What are they? As I have said before, I do not know what they mean, but they look much like this:


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3 responses to “Glyphs and the Horror THEY Bring”

  1. THEY are US. Yes if THEY could only tell us their story. You’ve hidden the protagonist in your story until the very end. It could have been animal, vegetable or mineral until the very end. Nice piece of writing for the "green" generation.

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