A sense of self imposed apartheid, bars on my window and chains on my door, visible and restraining to myself, to others they cannot be seen, they are non existent, there are no restraints.
Secluded, protected and unshaven… Rough tough and demented towards assorted variations of self inflicted transported dimensions.
Another world, another self, do I still have a soul?
Watching through the window I see the dogs barking by the curb. A squirrel is climbing up a tree to safety while birds sit silently on a branch, of an oak tree, in a park, over a bench where an old man sits waiting for that lady stranger to sit by his side and try and understand him.
Can she ever understand him?
Misunderstood and filled with confusion, like a wild horse in a stable, kicking up and raising it’s voice…
Beauty confined is a murder of sorts. Never understood, never truly seen as if one has never really felt alive.
But the old man remembers a time when he would get standing ovation and calls for encores… But the curtain fell a long time ago, just like that song… born out of time, in the storm, left in the wreckage no treasure to be found.
Endless tunnels through rocky mountains and wild rivers… wild stories of wild women and stolen cars. There is a light ahead… And it’s the sun… Like that old song.. Here it comes again…