We paint and we sleep and we rise, and we scream the day away...until the moon sings her song, and we quiet down. Our children hide behind the horses...and love, in the ways we know, and we smile...for once, we ourselves did so.
It has been thus, forever, except for the ways we die...almost boringly, rolling over. We curse the flesh and claim the find, so viciously assay it's worth, yet never really settle, gaze upon the ice...then time to time, we drop the rock, to take another home.
Never ever, never ever are we else, but here...the rolling round of life and life again...upon our spinning stone, and yet...inside our self, a place inside our self...we never find. That is our tear. That is the dream we never can recall of home.
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: The New Gypsies, google pic
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