The Weathered Blues

There are no answers. No paved roads. No North Stars. What guides the wandering minstrel? The lost poet? The seeker of truth? The fire burns, but the candle is low. There is resistance on this Earth. There are force fields around us, but they won’t protect. Lava flows amidst stone emotions.

What guides the ethereal dreamer? The give? The change in atmosphere. The world nestled in a palm. The wonderment of the sky at dawn and dusk. The rising ocean. We make the world a better place for those that came before us. Each generation dropping a rung, sometimes two, this frayed rope ladder of a species.

And what of the periphery? Anarchists clinging to the edges, personalities dried up in the sun. What of the land-locked, the grid-happy urbanites, the reclusive ones that build themselves into the hills, the sides of a mountain. What of that dreaded concept…potential? We’re only coming out because we came back in. The insurmountable is only seemingly so. All has been done once, despite the wildest imaginations. The patterns in the darkness, the grays colliding, merging with the weathered blues.

The transcripts of the delicate, patchwork souls of creativity. The power of the asterisk. The wandering unit of change. The undertow that engulfs the hungry. The unknowable, untrustable, unending, unsatisfying, unrestrained, unintended, the unencumbered, the drifiting, the drifted, the moments of clarity surround the confusion, the windswept parking lots of the future, the buildings slowly sinking deeper, the foundations of logic and territory upended, bewildered, lost and safe.

This history lesson lives on in spirit. This catastrophic melody is anchored in an inhuman cacophony of beats, pulses, switches and slaps.

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