All too
frequently this mortal coil presents itself as a conveyor belt of choices.
Drink or drive, rant or rave, poem or polemic, wastrel or worker, wolf or
whore, stoic or stoned, pilgrim or pistoleer, fucked or favoured, fear or
Fender, barroom or barricade, deacon or dog-boy, chaos or conformity, hawk or
handsaw, seer or songbird, carrion or carry-on, foreman, follower or maybe
fool? Or serf or surfer, referee or renegade, mistress or miscreant, Saracen or
slave, harm or harmony, hero or villain? Should we find ourselves driven to the
random and overused refuge of Ecclesiastes
3:1 and that ancient need to believe that for everything
there is a season, and a time to every wretched purpose under the heaven? A
time to be born, and a time to die; a time to kill, and a time to heal? Wither
points the complexity of signposts for souls without roadmaps. Weep or laugh;
mourn or dance; rend or sew; keep silence or speak; embrace or refrain from
embracing. A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of
peace; it never ceases.
Clock here for Bob
The secret
word is Please
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3 comments:
All familiar choices/experiences/problems - except "fear or Fender"(?). I don't get that one, never had to make that choice, as far as I know.
A whimsical moment of runaway alliteration – terror or Telecaster.
all roads lead to Calvary.just outside the gates of Eden, if ya lookin' Mr Zimmy _
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