RonaldCoone

At 6:11 PM, in the lingering light of Pennsylvania’s evening, a lone wolf’s howl splits the tranquil air, bullets cracking, a grim cadence of despair, freedom’s blood mingling with the earth. Trump, the phoenix of the West, grasps the wound at his ear, a trickle of red against his fervor, the roar of his crowd turns to cries, an American flag rippling in the chaos, stars and stripes grieving under the sun. The shooter’s rage, a misbegotten son of a fractured republic, Thomas Matthew Crooks, a name now cursed in our chronicles, a misguided beacon of hatred, extinguished in broad daylight. The crowd, a sea of patriotism, now awash in fear, one life extinguished, others clinging to the threads of hope and pain, the nation’s heartbeat faltering, a testament to our fragile unity. From the ashes of this assault, Trump rises, a titan scarred but unbroken, his voice a thunderclap across the plains, a call to arms against the darkness, a rallying cry for a divided land. In this land of

I have seen Doxx Holiday at her altar of light, a neon priestess in the midnight metropolis, her realm a labyrinth of electric veins and whispered code, the city a darkened womb, humming with secrets, a galaxy of screens flickering like urban constellations. Eyes sharp, darting between windows of data, her fingers a symphony on the backlit keyboard, a concerto of clicks and clacks, the language of the unseen, her face illuminated in the phosphorescent glow, a portrait of quiet fury, a sentinel in the digital cathedral. She is the architect of the invisible city, each keystroke a brick, each command a street, her kingdom sprawls in the twilight of the net, an expanse of binary boulevards and coded cul-de-sacs, where the whispers of the oppressed echo in the bandwidth. The pseudonym she wears, Doxx Holiday, a badge of shadows, a moniker in the neon mist, she traverses the digital alleyways, a phantom of justice, an avatar of retribution, unseen by the daylight, the ghosts of the

In the hum of life's mundane throng, We glide through days, swift and long, Unmindful of each step's sweet dance, Until life demands a deeper trance. Every stride, a rhythm unheeded, In the flow of life, we're conceded, Yet when each footfall requires thought, The journey's gravity is wrought. With each breath, a silent prayer, Invisible, yet we're unaware, Until the air becomes a struggle, Then each inhale, a precious bubble. Typing letters, a casual breeze, No sweat, no strain, no unease, Until fingers falter, refuse to comply, And simple tasks bid us goodbye. Feeding oneself, a casual jest, Until independence becomes a test, And each bite, a hard-won prize, In the battle to satiate hunger's cries. Concentrating just to move ahead, In a world where mobility's thread, Becomes tangled, knotted, unclear, And every step demands a seer. In the dawn's tender embrace, we dress, Once effortless, now a daunting mess, As age or health, their tolls they take, And simple actions become a

Is it the beat, the rhythm, the pulse a mad heart pounding under concrete skies, a runaway train of words that scream on subway tracks, jolting, jerking, tumbling into the mind of a city full of tired dreamers— is that a poem? Or the quiet, soft whispering in the pages of an old book, where the ink-stained hands of long-dead poets bleed black letters, each drop soaked in solitude, sighing with the weight of forgotten centuries, each verse a timebomb ticking beneath the mundane hum of office life— is that a poem? Is it the chaos in my chest, the fire of syllables sparking inside my veins like cigarette smoke curled in alleyways, where the rats scurry, the dogs bark, the lovers kiss, the lovers leave, the lovers write bad break-up lines because love is dead and so is poetry— or is it alive? Tell me, does the poem live in the meter, the five-and-dime iambic beat, in rhyme, tight like a noose, or in freeform explosions of thought tumbling like drunks down staircases of doubt and

In the quiet dusk of life's fading glow, I walk the path where memories flow, No regrets cling to my weary frame, A tapestry woven in the threads of the same. I've danced with shadows, chased the sun, In the tapestry of life, my deeds are spun, No remorse for the kindness I've sown, In the hearts of others, my legacy is known. The rhythm of my days, a cadence of care, A melody of compassion, beyond compare, I served and helped with an open hand, A vessel of love in this fleeting land. Yet, heed this wisdom, my friends, take heed, In the giving, keep a fragment for your need, For time, elusive, slips through our grasp, The universe's currency, an unrelenting clasp. To others, extend your hand and heart, But carve a niche for your soul, a sacred part, In the cosmic dance, where seconds whirl, Remember, my friend, to honor your world. In the temple of life, where echoes persist, No regrets linger, as the shadows resist, For in the end, when the curtain descends, A life well-lived

They say "God is in control," and I seethe, rage bubbling beneath the surface of polite conversation. Open your eyes! Look at the twisted metal, the broken lives, the sky choked with our neglect. This is not God’s doing, but our own, our dominion perverted into a reign of destruction. "God is in control," they whisper, as if those words could wash away the blood on their hands, the ruin in their wake. God entrusted us with this world, and we betrayed Him, squandering His trust with greed and power. Genesis spoke of dominion, a sacred trust to rule with care, but we grasped at power, crushed life in our hands. Fish suffocate in seas of oil, birds fall from the poisoned sky, the soil gasps under the tyranny of our machines. We were meant to tend the garden, yet we paved paradise with greed. They chant "God is in control," while the streets run red with innocent blood, the cries of the oppressed drowned out by engines of war. Ephesians warned us of the ruler of the air, and we, blind

In shadows deep, where mysteries lie, Fortune's whispers, 'neath the sky. A dance of chance, in twilight's embrace, Where fate and choice, intertwine in grace. From crystal spheres, secrets untold, Playing cards, their tales unfold. Poker chips, in faded hue, Echoing triumphs, lost and new. Roulette's wheel, its silent spin, Casting shadows, where hopes begin. Dice suspended, in midair, Stars unseen, their whispers rare. Ethereal realm, where shadows dance, Intrigue and wonder, at a glance. Serendipity's silent call, In shadows deep, fate enthrall.

In the silent womb of history, she whispered "Yeshua," not "Jesus," with the tenderness of a mother’s hope, her firstborn cradled in the night, stars witnessing the promise. Brothers called him "Yeshua" in playful yells across sun-drenched fields, in the sweat and toil of Nazareth’s dust, not a syllable of "Jesus." Disciples breaking bread, hearts heavy with devotion, sat in circles around him, "Yeshua" on their lips, they didn’t pass the wine to "Jesus." Blind men healed with mud and divine breath, their first sight a miracle, "Yeshua" their savior, cripples leaping in the temple’s shadow, crowds on the Galilean shore, "Yeshua" in the air, not "Jesus." Rumors whispered through Jerusalem’s narrow veins, a man claiming divine kinship, a stir of ancient prophecies, yet no one sought a "Jesus" among the alleys and whispers. Guards, spears glinting in moonlight, didn’t seize "Jesus" that night of blood and betrayal, on Golgotha’s skull-capped