You walk along the road one day, and all about is green and fresh. The sun shines. The rain falls.

All is good, so very, very good.


And then you turn a corner and unexpectedly the path becomes a one way street.

No one there. No one at all. Just some stranger in the mirror. Not happy, not sad, a blank slate.


Far, far away, who you were and are and will once again become dances in bitter ecstasy at your return to a land constructed long ago. Oaken trees soaked in misplaced ideals duel feverishly with tiny devils lurking in the roadside grass. Pleasure and pain lie smiling arm in arm, Siamese twins in cloudy skys of deadened thought. Crushed red petals once offered in grasping desperation lie scattered forlornly in the sand.

The fault, if fault there is, lies not in the petals, nor the leaves, or the stem. It is buried deep underground in the sorry roots of capricious self deception. Whose shovel, whose pick, whose sad delusion planted the seeds that put forth the roots, this fully disheveled comic tale of devolution?


Blame it on the Roadrunner. The Coyote was just hungry.

copyright r.b.franklin 07/12/05
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