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A dusty wind blows over the vast waste land, stealing conscious giving breath.
Not a no where near, does a thing grow, or breath, nor live in any form.
Permanent Dusk or Dawn, permeates the orange glow against the purplish blue background, swirling the colors till all is mixed from horizon to horizon and above.
The unforgiving hard, cracked ground, breaks only to Foreboding structures of raised ground and rock, that juant upward, menacingly toward the taunting sky.
Spectacals left from a time of change, these giants now lay dormant and Dark, still against the distant horizon, seeming as if to form a wall to barricade, or Mask what could lie beyond.
Trapped in this lifeless arena, it seems the arena itself begins to bring about it's own persona, the ironic twist of complete lifelessness breeds it's own life, and I, am enveloped into it's folds to portray the part of self realization.
For you see, in the Art of Imagination, the creation of a new World relies on the inner Reflections of the Creator. In the Surreal lies the real, If only the reality of the "matter" in the Surreal Scape, is the reality of the state of mind, in the Creator.
KJFX
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