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The Empire of the Primrose

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  The Empire of the Primrose The city fell in a single night Holding it would take longer So the painters were summoned in the gloom And the saints on the stone walls... Were given his family's eyes   A bloodline was found for him Older than the walls Older than the kings who raised them Now even the iron earth must forget It ever belonged to anyone else... I am the vessel, I am the decree The apex of empire, the false purity Holding the pale coronal into the glare Chartered to conquer the silence out there A seed of cold fences, an ark of damp clay Bending the void to the shape of decay The cycle resets in the dusk of the dream Cobblestone alleys and banners unseen Down the discrepant and tapering throat Past broken angels where gargoyles float Into the wood of the rot and the mould Smelling of Devon and iron gone cold One yellow petal, immaculate bloom Crushing the soul with the weight of its doom Touch the cold stem—and the spires bend back Cobbles turn red on the furnace-h...
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Discovering the terminal horizon

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Would you catch the Terminal Horizon bus? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett

The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus

Discovering the Terminal Horizon

The Long Highway

Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago.

Beneath the Scorch

Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat.

Broken Arteries

What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed.

The Last Horizon

And when the road finally runs out, there is only the ash, the petrified stumps, and the quiet. You are a lone figure sitting in the dust, watching the embers of the day burn down into night.

Is there a terminal horizon? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett







John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett, is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art. 

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Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.

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