Sunday, December 13, 2009

Till the Cows Come Home

It must be summer, as there is only screen in the window, letting in a soft, gentle breeze. In the far distance, one can hear the mooing of cows.

Simpler times.
Simpler lives.
Moments counted.
Passionately savored.

Outside the window, a new world. Man sacrificed. At any cost. Spirituality replaced by superstitions. Mortgage waiting payment.
Cows are but dinner with a side of fries.

Moments are lost and drift skyward, to be swept away by winds of chaotic turmoil.

Hanging on the cross,
the man tips his hat with a wink.

I pray for him.
I pray for me.
I pray for us.

Fantasy on a hymn tune.

Till the Cows Come Home can be seen at ArtWorks until mid-February

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