Resting solitude, beware the quivering hand of Night’s mercenary and the muted helical wisps of sweet despair that well-nigh consume the flesh of innocence.
Lurid reflections recovered throughout the travails of unrelenting circular journeys foretell stories of transcendence and of sorrow, and of leaves waxing restful on the pond’s silent breast. Protean skies sit god-like on their thrones,
Heads bowed, but shifting anxiously. The roots of these edifices will grow, they say, and in due time, beatified to soaring ecstasy, where children will lead in song, and tread the dusky streets as Kings and Queens.
Art: “The Flatiron” Edward J. Steichen