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June 28, 2006 The air is thick with nothingness. The Weeping Willow is always there. Weeping Willow, will you be my friend, even when I am dead and gone? Weeping Willow says nah, it was only a summer romance, you ask too much of me. Weeping Willow, Weeping Willow. As the sun goes down, it casts a strange light onto bricks, and all the quiet is all the quiet, all the trees are all the trees. Woods are thick, and not gleeful, just there. Clocks keep time. There is time as we know it, and more importantly, there is Indian time. The time of your love, and the time of your loss, and the time of your acceptance of your loss. By accident, or maybe by design, a smell infiltrates your nostrils, and you remember autumn, away, in another city, where the night was ripe and pregnant with possibility and so much could happen. You walked with a girl in a mall and she looked at you and told you things, the things lovers tell one another. However, you are alien to this world, and though you suffer more than any other soul, you have no real home here. The man said that man has no place to call his home or lay his head, or something akin to that, and you understand this. Weeping Willow. Someone is wrong, you or the world. Television and Big Macs, complacency and hang-ups, the game goes on and the Weeping Willow is there too. There are lines of trees. There are lines of cars. It rains. It rains rain and it rains minds. Catholic minds, and Jewish minds, and atheist minds. It rains political minds, and poetic minds, and spiritual minds. It rains large minds sometimes, but mostly small minds. The Weeping Willow does not care. It knows better. It pays no mind at all. Weeping Willow, will you outlive me? Yes, oh of course, says the Weeping Willow, what did you think? And this is the way of things. Someone’s great grandmother sat in a chair and prayed all day. She asked a son-in-law for lots of Pepsi and cough syrup, and said, you get it, and oh, Jesus will be good to you. Its funny, the world, when it is not so sad, when it is not such a drag. Someone has an expensive wind chime and it dances a bit, and, well, chimes. The Weeping Willow smirks, just a small upstart, thinks the Weeping Willow, just another Johnny Come Lately, like so many others. I am the Weeping Willow, thinks the Weeping Willow, and I am here to stay The air is thick with nothingness. The Weeping Willow is always there. Weeping Willow, will you be my friend, even when I am dead and gone? ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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