ST4 ... In the process
things can change without notice
In the process things can change without notice, catch you off guard, slip you off your feet, fly you without wings. The beauty that surrounds you plays a gentle wind and holds you dear to her heart. The life before you is miraculous, sometimes dull, full of surprises. In the slow evening air questions scatter themselves around the ivy and tall trees. The way things were enters the pathway upwards towards the stars, dusty memories wrinkle up the clouds with a curious breeze. In the grasslands of lonely dreams a worn mind wavers across the lowlands and speaks clear to a passing scene. Answers unclear ride along the waves of solitude over mountains of grieve and pain to a silent land where things don't matter all that much and spirit is everywhere, alive.
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Beauty continues sparsely noticed by the ideologies floating by in mid air, the sacred sites fading in and out of the minds of the determined, concrete concepts working towards an end. In the very existence of matter the truth sits quiet like a fallen leaf floating down a silver stream towards a heavy nothingness. It is always that way when gratitude hides in the circumstance of things, stuff caught in the heat of dull city streets, boulevards of dishonest wages creep into the hearts of people walking swiftly about. This is civilization crawling, a literature walking home on its own terms.
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There is always just enough light in the night to see what's happening when you're quiet. Janitors busy sweeping long leery hallways, ghosts of legislators clutter the rooms with fiction for fools, writing scribbled on the walls melting. In the lonesome alleyways where the homeless gather and injustice reigns, hope spreads out like a disease. It would take a train load of saints to clean up this mess, numerous container-ships full of love to navigate around these delirious capes off main street. Down on the corner you can hear the brass horns and silver saxophones negotiate thru the storms. The undertakers are busy with the slaughtered and the top guns are bending all the rules. What was once right and true is now dark and deep. The tide has turned, the innocent are thugs, bullies are angels where wrong is right and truth is scattered amongst false facts floating in thick air as sacred messages are delivered down by drones to the tired and woolly.
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In the silence a quiet voice speaks with a still tongue to what is actually real where no eyes see. The long road to understanding is vacant this way. No sooner is one there when one is everywhere, this is the way home thru the dying, beauty and displaced bones.
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Writing and Images by Patrick Wey
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Evocative writing and even more Amazing images.