Dry leaves on a bed of memories, the way through the woods, footpaths
unknown only to us, in dense winding ways of wonder. Vast adrenalin kingdoms were ours, young lives strangely blessed by the writer with the mask, powered naïve non- awareness, before we knew even the shadow of evil. The Trickster’s footsteps echoed even then, as his plan came with artful creeping. There are no words to trace what has been done.
Now, who will take away this bland water resistant dry desert of modern youth, that has virtual everything but, cannot even approach the perfumed garden of a fifty years ago English heaven, where nature was uninhibited by technological perfections, and poverty was worth so much more?
What has taken the very life of our present day youth, and fed dry leaf poison into their minds, and then made them to drink the wine of stagnations emptiness. Love and Peace inhabit a place made unapproachable by 10,000 TV jingles, and where the free joy of life is ignored.
I cannot write more, the tragedy will soak into it’s colourless void, and into a place where the wonderland of Alice, will never be found again.