It’s not polite to be radical and speak so openly about unseen energy abounding amongst our midst and how dare the soothsayer be honest in the naked truth for when to do otherwise could cause a great loss of lives but is that the only reason to be honest when the King loses face in the moment and so the soothsayer dies for yielding to the message that came forth and there in the ramparts stands the dreamer alone in this naked truth but we all look away too quickly for fear it might be contagious like I mean after all isn’t ignorance bliss while the coils like tentacles form around us in anxiety tension and the dreamer stands over there watching and singing with tears streaming pleading that we be spared but there is no salvation in obfuscation only distortion of how the water got muddy to start with and without clarity no one can see the truth so send the clowns home and dare the dreamer to dream once more alive as the pilgrims report back from the future of past lines drawn in the space of demarcation as we sing and shout our bondage to materialistic illusions that look like scattered bones in the wind
Like scattered bones in the wind
In the fields where the coils lay
It's the field workers, sir.
They have all left on a pilgrimage.
and the children were all staring
at the military parade as it drove by.
the cold depths of madness have bitten
the snakes as they lay entwined.
it is spring here. The Body Electric awaits
the thawing out of the winter bones.
Yesterday the children laughed.
Today, they are gone and the silence is eternity.
The fragments lay in stillness waiting for the axis
to pull back in line. Summer skies.
The wind pulls open the feathers.
Birds list to the East, hurrying before the rains.
Website: Loveday Studio
|The Gulf of Dreams|
5h x 3.5 inches/12.7 x 8.9 cm
February 24, 2012