Time is inevitable.
Of course, our minds are no longer working in accordance to the rest of the body. We think, therefore, we can not possibly imagine what degree of damage has been dealt to our flesh sins, corrupted and rusted. Yet we still move forward in some futile attempt to collect what was once lost, mittens buried deep in snow left by a child who was too cold to care to handle the responsibilities. Violets, somehow, are saved from cruel hearts that forget the truth that they are human. Flowers, rare and delicate, made into a crown to bless the queen of seasons while she walks the trails, her feet made of morning dew and baby’s breath. Time, spent in frugal measures, can be seen as primal and short lived. Understand, then, that this must be a religious experience, one to surpass the once popular notion that sin would forever control us. And yet, and yet, eyes still seek out something greater. We encompass the right, split down middle, to evolve in our fashion and become more than human, more than machine. Puritanical to replace the lustful, surprising even our own selves to die withered on a cross created by steel and rusted nails. This is the gift we have all agreed to accept with such frowns on our faces. No, it is no longer here: our words, sins, deeds, creatures created strictly from the mind, of desires reached and faintly grasped. Do we have a prophet, now, living among us, ready to speak for us all? Is she in great pain that only she created for her words will not make any sense if otherwise? We have been led to believe that she must suffer before we will take her words as truth. She used to be our queen of seasons until we, her followers, killed everything leaving the land barren and sick. Her crown was replaced with screams, her dress tattered greys and blacks and still we want more, raping her mind to search for sweet and bloody secrets she holds from us. Religion is our saviour and she is its mother.
(photo by Carlton Johnson)