A train of thought meander to make you think.
Second Eden : Golgotha
Slowly he turned, preferring the bite of the Autumn wind to the oppressive staleness of an already dying garden. Could this have been where early green shoots of Spring had opened his eyes or where, young and impressionable, he had discovered peace to be beyond mere illusion?
The ravages of a war without words, a battle of higher plane combatants, settled, bringing with it early death to the beauty of Spring’s youth. Not for this garden an eager hero; not for this Spring unsung errants in white. Here, crimson destiny closed the gate to freedom and blockaded the paths of option.
The door to the garden was closed and the sky darkening as he entered. Too soon, but on time, the clouds had gathered. Too soon the false colours of Spring revealed the dark flags of war.
The rocks fell. The facts of the battle are written in the glassy eyes of the undead. The walkers of the wind sing the melancholy dirge of passionless love; preordination. Love and pain, in strange intimations, grip each other for the inspiration of hope.
Perhaps the garden is too forbidding. Perhaps the battlefield too empty of scars for certainty. Perhaps the empty, stinging, wooden cross is too offensive. There are no middle-class messiahs on this hill, no plaster statuettes or angel-topping chorales. Try next door if these placate your false hunger. Stay longer in this garden if you realise a need for more.
Slowly he turned, preferring the bite of the Autumn wind to the oppressive staleness of an already dying garden. Could this have been where early green shoots of Spring had opened his eyes or where, young and impressionable, he had discovered peace to be beyond mere illusion?
The ravages of a war without words, a battle of higher plane combatants, settled, bringing with it early death to the beauty of Spring’s youth. Not for this garden an eager hero; not for this Spring unsung errants in white. Here, crimson destiny closed the gate to freedom and blockaded the paths of option.
The door to the garden was closed and the sky darkening as he entered. Too soon, but on time, the clouds had gathered. Too soon the false colours of Spring revealed the dark flags of war.
The rocks fell. The facts of the battle are written in the glassy eyes of the undead. The walkers of the wind sing the melancholy dirge of passionless love; preordination. Love and pain, in strange intimations, grip each other for the inspiration of hope.
Perhaps the garden is too forbidding. Perhaps the battlefield too empty of scars for certainty. Perhaps the empty, stinging, wooden cross is too offensive. There are no middle-class messiahs on this hill, no plaster statuettes or angel-topping chorales. Try next door if these placate your false hunger. Stay longer in this garden if you realise a need for more.
1 comment:
Very cool design! Useful information. Go on!
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