“The praises of a man are that he did not follow the counsel of the wicked, neither did he stand in the way of sinners nor sit in the way of sinners nor sit in the company of scorners. But his desire is in the law of the Lord, and in his law, he meditates day and night. He shall be as a tree planted beside rivulets of water, which brings forth its fruit in its season, and its leaves do not wilt; and whatever he does prospers. Not so the wicked, but they are like chaff that the wind drives away.
Therefore, the wicked shall not stand up in judgment, nor shall the sinners in the congregation of the righteous. For the Lord knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked shall perish”. – Psalm I
Somewhere in Colorado on U.S. 50
Fall this prodigious open night; keep dropping, thy great dark curtains wide. Inclosing this abandoned road, this lane of loneliness, fall now shy daemons, left and right, darkened with your errant light. What lies so barren, between my eyes, what doors are open, what lies so quiet, here by this corridor under moonlight? The patched top pavement where patterns glare, pointing to roadside, the dark tree is there, as if a corpse upon this plain, without a leaf it‘s sap decayed its limbs in grief. Bob Seger‘s notes and raspy odes would not begin to set the scene of what arrives here near this tree, this light of Babylon this unholy see. It is a highway in the dark, a sliver of moon that dices my heart. I stop when nothing is around, to go and turn off my headlights, they die without a sound.
Oh grant me composure on this I pray, as the circles of hot wind comes near my face, the tree so near me it takes some shape, that of giants from hells own gate. There seems a question, that I should ask, or some password, that would let me pass. May be a doorway into its way, and further on maybe a cave. For sure, I read upon a time, that Luz is waiting on the other side. Or, it could be a desert opened wide. What do you want I say inside looking around for a sign of life, but nothing happens, at least from sight of common origin, that will not fright.
Instead, a voice, inside my head, it could have been thought, of things I dread, it opened dialogue from by the tree, upon this night by U.S. 50.
“Tell me contrary to all I ask”, said something withering from life gone past. “Give me the opposite of all I say, this is your challenge to pass by this way”. I tried to reason within myself could this be Lucifer, or my own self. Had I gone mad out here away, without the confines of rules to obey? I had no time, as the night closed in, and the roadside went out within, the voice it intoned a game to play, and it was too late then to drive away.
The words flew fast then as words do, with syllables clashing, in darkened hue. It said,
“What of your origin”, I said, “your past”. It said “your future”, I said G_D‘s plans. It spoke of opera, I spoke of blues, it mentioned Bocelli, and I hummed “Howlin Wolf“. It said, “Your soul”, I said, “depends”, its shape was shivering, so I said, “Psalms one, all verses are within”. The conversation lasted past a quarter of three, no lights on the highway, no birds in the tree, and the ground was still but not so the sky, for it seems my answers had pleased something high.
For just a moment, there was a split in the night sky, a moonbeam shot downward, and illuminated my eye, and I saw before me the tree now a stump. The souls of the roadside flying up. A release had occurred, for why I know not, could be an illusion, you decide if it happened or not. Yes, you decide if it happened or not. – 03.10.2018 – דניאל