*Author’s note: Alright, here’s the first chapter. It could probably use some editing, so criticism will be greatly appreciated. Also, I’m currently thinking of a new name for the country…so far, I like Kraja and Agathon the best. Any other suggestions?*

Sleepily pass the days
of all seasons,
slowly on the year does trod
for those who are confined.

Muted, people move
across dim, buzzing screens
so silent
its enough to make them scream, the confined

Young and old,
both can be prisoner to their years
but the middle-aged still yearn
for the age before, and yon

Even a slowly-paddled boat
is adventure on the sunny river
and slow talk and watercress sandwiches
amounts to an extravagance of life,
to the confined.

I was once told that editing one's life as one would a manuscript is a positive thing. Editing frees us from extraneous emotions, thoughts, actions and people. Much like Bruce Lee's philosophy of retaining the useful and discarding the useless.

I've come to realize "editing" is easier said than done. No matter how ruthlessly logical the mind decides to be, the heart will always beg to differ. Some emotions simply cannot be discarded. Some situations in life simply cannot be edited.

Unrequited loves. How does one discard such a sentiment as love?

Wow, this is kinda depressing. It sounds better when you're listening to an AMAZING song called Gravity by Sara Bareilles. This was inspired from a dance on So You Think You Can Dance (Mia Michaels' contemporary routine, danced by Kayla and Kupono). They danced it to Gravity, and it is beautiful. So anyhow, constructive critisism is definitely welcome!!!!

Trapped, captured
Dancing at the tips of your cruel fingers
I am your marionette
You are the puppet master

You want me
Because I've lost strength
You don't care about me
You want power

there was a boy, by the name of hayes

who walked in the valley, and wasted his days,

over teh hills, by the trees,

where the weat feilds, grew up to his knees.

he had no money, no barn, no crop,

only the wood, of a farmer, he did chop.

for years on end, that axe did he swing,

untill one night, the farmer dis sing:

boy youve got talent, and a pretty good arm,

youve ran this place alone, my entire farm.

you could make a livin, on much more than i could pay,

this isnt how i know you want to spend your day.

The wind howled over the mountain range. Far in the distance a pack of wolves howled at the moon. The silver shadows that played on the snow made the land eerie and mysterious. The dying embers of a campfire glowed from under an overhang.

Night breathes as deep as day,
but it doesn't sigh
bugs buzz faintly, encircling warmth
and fireflies blink lazily,
on and off,
on and off

Then a sudden burst shatters quiet,
booming, slicing, crack!
they burst upon my sight,
for a second, blazing
electric-blue chrysanthemums,
bigger than the moon under wispy clouds, hazy

and then they wilt, slowly,
disappearing

Golden shrieks crackle and snap
upon the smoky grey-black
a velevety sky,
invisible stars

Smoothly, upon the wings of night eagles,
it rises,
and swiftly is carried aloft by the wind

white as stars,
it flutters
before being caught again
then, floating,
before the grey of a new dawn
the wind slows, then is gone
the eagles have vanished, for now

the moon is watching
pale, and marked,
just as this is,
this thing that gently brushes against wet grass
in front of your house

You come out in the morning,
the sun is yawning,
that early
there it is,