A trace of superstition still hangs upon them. The past is as tangible as actuality. They live it, they breathe within dominions of their time and those once trod by their forefathers. The legacy is both strong and benevolent. Hence , so is the affinity between generations long parted and the living present. The departed have never truly departed from the consciousness of those still living, though not every name is known but their presence is persistent. The people here, they're a mite superstitious. Youthful formative years were liberally imbued with rhymes and odes of folklore where there is no sharp divide of legend from history. The structured education of logic, truth and reasoning heap upon indentations first forged by lore, diligently learned during childhood. A clear innocence flavour their pursuits. A sense of unobtrusive dignity pervade pursuits spanning from exalted undertakings to prosaic chores. If there is a place where a wanderer would gaze back with longing in heart and a vow to return, it would be this.
NO. 11 (A PIECE ABOUT ILLEGAL WEEKEND RACING)
a trail of cold wetness a passing rain's legacy a weekend's night at the square's hub
pungence of pumping exhaust hazy light beams streak their path through the murky blur
the public mingle at street fringes as streaks of lights mark their motorised presence
has anyone found their night's beacon ? or is it only tonight's attraction destined to be next morning's faded memory ?
screeches and skids upon asphalt surface burning rubber doused by moist surface
thrills in a rush bets on the line for momentary glory without flawless display a reckless fool he becomes
how we've lived and where we're heading vanishes when adrenaline shoots from a quick draw all philosophical speculation abruptly cease
has anyone found their life's beacon ? or is it only tonight's attraction destined to crack up and fade at first light ? 8>)