Stepping off a plane.
Carried from black sky and thick lung burning plumes choking life with Octobers fall breezes into Hell’s own howl. Leaving my life long home for an outpost in the earth’s brow of old fathers white hair, old and icy bearded man. The latitude above the moist green flowered land I grew up in and covered myself in each step.
Paradise was burned as fast as a wooden match goes. Ahh, I knew that staying below in a Village called Roseville would grant me among her wild rose fields an escape, a foothold to leap from. I did just that in a place and space of the ripping up of a life that was always on the edge of father, lover, friend and support, who had no root, no foundation of the true stone which lasts in all changes, the heart. The father, lover, brother, had gone running after flames to make love to, flames that spring from desires to chase passions.
This painter had become invisable. The invisable to see through -no longer seen. It was all happening for a shock sprang from Solaces End.
Stepping out on the new cold icy land of the Inuit walk, me a weak baby with no balance, at the time in life you do get back to slower thought and time that is all so stripped of chemical cushions that cover the bones of this old temple, the time had pounced like a cougar who knows, you’re my food, or you get creative. It’s time now. You must have the coins soon, for the ferry.
Where is all the lazy color, those deep greens and clear blue ski? They’re left back home, where Paradise burned.
Who would have foretold?
1001 Aratian Flights, Becky's Bio 