No more cold touch the wind from the North.
No more hand over hand climbing the ropes of hope.
So thin the air seems to have become.
So dry the fresh spring grass.
So many mirrors on the way becoming the defining factor.
All the while being hit with the recognition of dashed dreams and ambition.
He walks in circles around his garden, plotting new routes through time.
Nobody is left to show the way.
And yet so much distraction or just plain old avoidance of the point.
The point of it raining down upon the face out face out.
All part of the maneuverings of this mayhem walkabout.
Only now seems we must give it some form of documentation and/or official title.
Call it art or call it a bloody day.
It’s all the same going into this, hidden, headfirst, and headstrong.
And so stubborn is that ox you met back there when the first pieces began to appear.
Specks of blood in the snow.
Or when distance became more than mountains on a horizon.
And he settled into fathoms upon fathoms of ideas about where one could travel to through thoughts and ideas and ideas and Ideas.
Sitting alone again in his room, while rain on the corrugated iron roof gives anchor to his thoughts or hope for his permanence.
Yes, thought he was invisible and thought he was invincible… until the journeymen arrived through that muddy dimension of childhood imagery.
So, the zip zip flying patterns of their highly specialized craft.
Caught him falling into that nod off posture of afternoon fuzz.
Yes, this could have been the craft. Buzz fuzz buzz.
Falling from the grace of your very own implanted values, limits of what you allow… as he wanders in with that new knowledge of, despite the contrary, being totally alone.
So very alone.
Mission all but forgotten.
The cause nothing more than Roadkill now as he trundles in a wobbly way towards a silent exit.
Gone from the sight and awareness of all he holds dear.
So, at the end of this day and after all this conclusion, what does he really have to say to anyone?
They already left you before they knew it themselves, so who was left to listen?
Bellbird sing a song over the distant hum of the new UFO traffic.
And the screaming pleas of the people in a crazy rush to transcend.
Copyright © Graeme Perrin 2023