On a translucent highway the immigrant sings a song
Though slightly off key,
An opus none-the-less.
A song ancient to his heart,
An old folk song of yesteryear,
Years he leaves behind yet still recalls.
Not for fond remembrance,
But for the melody within which propels him onward to that which is beyond himself.
Beyond the days of brazen and brash whores;
No matter how much they gave,
No matter how much he took,
Whores of adultery just the same.
Beyond the incessant racing of circles that are forgotten and lost in the canopy of hazy metropolis nights.
Beyond the landscape of persistent restless questions,
‘Are there really any seats?’…
‘Why do you seek the living among the dead?’…
The song on his lips is a song to live by.
A song that teaches how to live between the white and yellow lines;
That is if there are actually any lines that guide a crooked highway…
‘Who could simplify and reduce Creation’s curves and angles to a plain straight line?’
Everyone likes to color outside the box and experience the subtle hues of Grace Divine along a broken path marked as a national scenic route.
A song of guns and angels wings that pass through the fires of holy unadulterated passion.
A song that is the promise of tomorrow, where cherubim dance with flaming sword;
Where yesterday is remembered but does not exist.
‘…I’m the type of guy who likes to roam around, I’m never in one place, I roam from town to town…yea I’m the wanderer…yea the wanderer…’
‘…I left with nothing, nothing but the thought of You, I went wandering…’
The promise made was never contingent upon our own faithfulness.
And that is hard, as a fistful of footprints in the sand, for a man of ideals to swallow.
Because ideally, the song is one of self-realization,
And reality is born in the ending of self.
This then, is where the wandering begins.
…for days when your esoteric hiatus refuses to go away …