A Message in the Dust
Red barns with tin roofs rusted. The red painted barns, light gray with
age, are the relics of the past. Here they are leaning to one side. The
farmer is the only one knowing that his barn will not fall or fail. I can
count hundreds on my way to work. Some would not make good kindling, other
could adorn "a cow and barn" by MasterPainter.
I see people asking to say hello, others are beyond being asked. Nothing has changed in thirty years. Some people play the flutes and some people follow. Some people look down on garments and hair, earrings and lashes and chubby cheeks. Some stand aside in lavender embers and watch.
I could stand like "Scarlet" atop a green hill and pour ashes from an urn. The dust and ashes could move aloft and swirl into our eyes.
Why do we want to impress the crowds with harps and jubilee?
Why do crowds avoid some visions?
Some people seek comfort in style. Some people cry and are ignored. Such is the style of our system. The haves and the have nots. Dust and ashes could move aloft and swirl into all our eyes, the haves and the have nots. We seek who to talk to, the rest we ignore.
What a pisser.
There is a little bird out side this window, picking at a mop, trying to fly away with the mop strings, she gave up and flew up and dropped a message in the dust.
Walking on Rip Rap
Words & Graphics by Tomas