Hello everybody!

Gregory Thomas here!

I am on the verge of creating my first book Chronologue with Jil Ronsley:

If all goes well and everything falls through, I should have a physical copy extremely soon.

A sample of the chapter 2 passage can be found here:

Once done, it will be available for purchase most definately here on Cascadialegends. ūüôā

I’m super excited, the book has been copywritten, as well as the samples on my blog.

Be sure to stay tuned. I want to thank everybody for their support, I have almost 400 followers out there, thank you very much for all your help, God is good.


-from Gregory Thomas.





War is the javelin piercing the troubled heartbeats.

The thorn across the mind that ensnares the spirit.

The body is the war; our bodies are the jungle, humanity frolics through the Jungles of War and Ambition.

Ambition fuels rage, passion, lust, temptation.

Ambition is what created America. Ambition creates everything…

But ambition creates destruction. The same people who built the great settlement designed to ensure this breathing man’s freedom, made the same atomic bomb rendered forth to destroy it all.

Our arms like trees rise and fall with our heartbeats.

Our limbs like trunks root and uproot.

Our heads like the clouds swing thoughts, like the frozen cirrus clouds; cold and warmed by the breathing sun.

Shadowed, or embraced by rain.

Rain slumbers in the midst of this man’s fellow mind.

Is it a flood of passion come forth to tremble the light?

The ear is the metronome of flesh for the sound and caverns; this fellow-man’s skull’s interior is equal to the endless caverns the mind wanders through.

Do we serve as our own phantom? Do we play a haunt unto our own bodies–

Are we ghosts inside our own bodies; Do we possess ourselves?

Or does society string us along?

Do we awaken ourselves into the air of our wanting drives?

In the sunflower fields of light, does this fellow man derive.

The nose is the great pillar of us all; embracing the air we thrive.

My eyes the seeing pedestal unto all this fellow of one and many;

humanity in an overture. The chessboard of fate is right there, in us all;

the body is the war; in where lone politicians or perhaps many of the like, search high and lo for Liberty’s Bell.

My fellow good man, our heartbeats play a host to the very ribcage of Liberty’s cell.

Copyrightcopyright April 18, 2019

Haikus and Good News


Now peace falls into the minds of those who understand it;

peace is understood by the quivering eyes, the heartbeats;

a fidgeting disguise–

the face is but a face, in the full view of other faces, the walking bodies the loving waltz through life meeting and greeting the endless stride–

A heart, in nature.

Love is love

is love.

A glow, is it your face?

Amongst the trees with.

War paint?

The art of war, no longer needed;

in the White Robes amongst us.

There is peace.



The leaves understand,

their mother feeds them well,

in the harshest of lands.


Copyrightcopyright March 9, 2019

Fate Weavers


In a siren’s gaze, as the gun’s blaze, in mid-airborne do we strike again. Now tell me wanders through the killing fields; the skies bloat out by the broken ruins, do they act as a comrade’s shields?

Does the airborne trench, the one in the skies in where the clouds carry lost souls;

act as the pavement for the planes to crash ‘gainst?

Love is a pilot fighting for freedom, and once the freedom enters the skies;

a dogfight occurs over the cornea vessels that mark the eyes–

guns go forth like walking limbs, the swing of will in the gills; those are the pilots who mistook the ocean for a window seal;

unlocking the waves, our vision went hazy, lost to the fog of war the mist that forever betrays thee–

the sea is crueller than preparing for the striking missile;

fate has never been more in control, than with the artist ‘crossin canvas bristles;

in the air, the battlefield is decided, for in the mist, the fog of war is the siren’s guidance–

love is in the air, peace is in the motion;

war is on the ground, and silence ‘cross the inevitable ocean–

Copyrightcopyright March 8, 2019

The Battle for Souls


And it is the beckoning ricochet of air and wind;

when the swords do blows, and strike aloft again;

the swing of the hefty arms of war, and greed is torn asunder;

for the strike against a loft stone, spells forth the swing of imminent disaster;

the heart is waging war with the mind; every single time.

Guns blazing, and the birds do battle;

the ground rises for the moon, in the form of wandering buildings for the noon.

For flying through skies, shrapnel lies;

in the skies, the ground is swung in a spiral of thrusts, for each other’s wants–

the soldiers airborne for each other;

the planes gather the clouds–

in a ricocheting of every single living thing found–

Copyrightcopyright March 7, 2019

Awakening Ambition


And the clouds above us float with intensity;

so does our ambition, when we think-

the thoughts of wanting, and the limbs of striding?

The same only without the other would leave us without–

the ringing in our ears, the notions of wants;

we want what the soul wants;

and the soul is a fathomless notion of deeds–

knowing to no end, in where does the soul begin?

The heartbeats of a thriving will;

and the lessons learned in time–

there is no time that exists, within an impatiant mind–

Copyrightcopyright March 7, 2019

Regnum Bella (Kingdom Wars)


And in the castle, there lies the walls;

forged by the blacksmith of buildings, the mortar embraces the wind-

the wind is a businessman, shaking hands with the settlement’s structures–

the way the earth’s ground snuggles the ancient old pavement still;

like a newborn with their mother–

the clouds go to circle around the rook, and the watchtower greets the skies;

the way a sturdy building hit by a country’s enemies ground-zeros;

the earth’s moss covers over any demise–

Copyrightcopyright March 2, 2019