It doesn’t flow, really.
Not the way we think of flow.
Not like water.
Not like greed.
A million years looking up won’t change them.
Not even a little bit.
Wonder doesn’t flow.
It’s a beach ball or a sudden kiss or the denouement in a great film.
There or not there. That isn’t the question.
If you can’t feel it in the falling rain, then you can’t feel it at all.
The truck growled by yesterday, its occupants flat, dead, gone.
Zombies. Wonderless.
They rule the world, zombies.
They make the rules.
It’s their leaders that are in office.
It’s their hate scratched into the monuments.
It’s their monuments!
It’s their stench that darkens the sky and stings the nostrils.
The truck growled by as I, wandering, came to a tiny, forever-not-noticed creek
as it tumbled happily from glistening slate into a sliver of a liquid mirror next to the road.
Cat-tails, moss, tadpoles, white-yellow-red flowers ...
Wondering.
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From Fractalverse: Volume Four
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Digital Art: Asymptdragon by Shawn Michel de Montaigne
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