ARCADIA

I saw life, I saw moments cut down the Tiber with bright guiding lights showing nothing but broken glass, smoked cigarettes, the beautiful tanned beauties of the Roman night, bottles bubbling up in the big stream, a gull clamping a neck of a pigeon, spilling out the draining life of the fluttering bird, all some sign of the time, and the changing of the days. Every ancient God, and Goddess would question this drowning metropolis from their high heaven, beyond the mind’s eye, after reality and in the middle of the dancing reverie. I can’t say I’ve seen every mountain top, and sight, but this place is unlike the next, touched by time, revolved by shadows, and dreamt in the minds of the dreamers too concerned with life to see it.

To see and feel it, and grab the night, feel the times that hold your soul to the fire, with the essence of the being from every strand of color that can be seen on the ceiling of the Pantheon or through any random cobble streaked back way entrance to a supposed Holy, to the clouds down into the dark world of the every day blur, a passage to the unknown, the reading of the spirit, and the drugged dreams of the sublime.