Contrast

Lost again as the compass misplaced under steps and hopeful geometry, the needle of 101 shadowless under clouds and the massing movements of feet crowding towards the holiday.

A ghetto of wealth here, under the framed portraiture of the latest Madonna and child, the worshipful image and aspiration of the latest propaganda and supposed beauty, (but which should we aspire to, either or both), projections upon the wisps of smoke which are our personal collusion of elements and particles this temporary resting place of the eternal which we call home.

Something kitschi in my eyes, a clash of decades and ingrained stereotypes where memoried textbooks clash in the collusion of the commune of cultures superimposed upon retina biased by belief, maybe, the lens my projection, untrustworthy as these seeded words...