glades

[Sepia]

Man, said god, you are dog.

We hear the wolves at night, their howling rivaling that of the goetia and the ancient discussion flares up anew, is it insects or hounds that inhabit hell? We are reminded of something wild within our hearts, something still living and lurking underneath the freedom we have bought ourselves as the dogs limp nervously around, a stephen king book written out here in the glade, a moon shining on the snow, a cover for the darkness we surround us with as the reverend remind us that there is no light without dark, the yin and the yang transformed into an image that still holds something other than faded ink on decaying skin.

We hear the wolves coming closer, their paws in the snow, the mist ascending from primordial mouths. They stand in our garden, gaze at us, the beasts from without gaze within, searching for parts of themselves stuck in the neverending wheel of progress, they see their future in us, they see their reflection in us as we sit inside the windows with our cups of tea and plates of scones, a different schedule than what is preprogrammed, chaos seeps into the cracks of our lives

We are houseniggers now, we have become what caveman saw in the dark monolith, what created the first human feeling of scorn as we looked upon the mirror of beyond, warping time and space through our minds, leaving only a feeling, a tingling trace of something important

lost