That looks like my Mother’s dog. Is it? Is that lady not the
stranger I think she is, but somebody I know, whom I think is my Mother?
There is no telling what is left, just the dank stink of
stranger days. A fear and feast of rather kind dragons, measured by the level
headed stranger that watches me fall. These people are kind and noble, that can
be written for certain. They want us to do the best, even if it destroys our
lives – makes us their sheep. They are fearful vampires, and I do my best to be
free from their grasp. Only the leaders know where I am, but they cannot get
through the labyrinth.
Repetition is worthwhile. Only those marked by the skin of
the beast must be written on the stone outside my cathedral. One of these sheep
mindfully walks, dear to the heart of the woman who may or may not be my
mother. The dog is there, I know that for sure, but the person is a far
different creature than I have ever seen before, weighed down with heavy
thought and the urge to complete a festival made out of glass. The place is not
visible, but I think I see where she finally broke and rolled back to the
ocean.
Finally, I cannot be certain that the woman is not the dog.
A rope attaches them, so I fearfully cut it. These shining sums weigh on her
concourses, the curves and highways that Tom Cochrane wrote of. The appeal is
beginning to fade, because the hope of the tinderbox finally igniting is far
too appealing for the separated faiths. We all want to be these people, but
when we watch the gifts they are given we cannot do anything but cry out for
equality. I suppose eventually something important will occur and the people
will simply be fed up. Then, of course, they will stop voting. That really is
our plan all along.
