For such a small town, there are a remarkable amount of homeless roaming its streets. I was told on the other side of the tracks was where all the crackheads hung out. The roaming Celtic Knight took me under his wing and guided me across an otherwise treacherous Poe-esque landscape. Perhaps it is my naivete that caused me to trust him so completely in a matter of about three hours worth of talking. As the grass grows green and the atmosphere’s O2 supply is replenished, so does amazing talent that is one half of a whole. Both just waiting for winter, introvert and extrovert, musician and painter. Dax’s voice weaved in and out of the day like a whispering ghost reminding me of the life awaiting me back home. Unspoken conversation becomes a treasure that I find myself unwilling to sacrifice as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon in a defiant slant through crisp exotic smoke trails exhaled from ruby lips. Blessed now in two faiths, the Bible in my bag nods in sarcastic approval as I trip over my own feet getting ready to fly high above neatly manicured lawns and beautiful symmetrical buildings slotted for demolition.
“No true home to speak of, I find my residence laying deep within pairs of eyes shinning through murky water being comforted by the softness of ambiguity. Collecting stories like a toddler would horde sticks and fallen leaves. Pleasant voices and smiles that spoke of an honest purity emanating from refurbished hearts. The realization that the body is a tool to be used in every way as a bridge to the metaphysical.”