a Cephapolod in the dust

Turban wrapped men etched into the road we so carelessly drift down now, convenient in our forgetfulness, unlike 500 million years of evolution who, despite being without backbone, do in fact have memory. And, it’s not even that convenient, the many thousand miles passed to get us to this exact spot. And in the same way we might shame convenience, forgetting is never what we did.

Three hearts seems a bit unfair. For the camouflage, the blending and shading and shrouding: light attacking the unseen, extorting from the inside out. Evasive in obsidian cloud, acrid fear, pungent power, murky shadows.

It’s inevitable though when trying to keep up with those three beats. We look, although never see. Keep driving to who knows where doing who knows what. Waiting for that red dust to settle. But it never can when the question was never asked, or if it was asked, was returned, most definitely unwanted, and always unanswered. Pointing at each other, fingers lost in grit, and I wonder what it is we are trying to hear, even if we could eavesdrop on silence. Even then, still seeing visions in the red. But what we didn’t know was that those visions appeared on different days, saying different things, in different ways, to different people. And all I can think about is what would 500 million years of evolution make of that?