Traditionalism
The Man and the Boy emerge from an ancient spire. Built on a foundation of stone, it rises to bronze, iron, and steel. The ominous monument has no point, or any ending. Rather it is open ended, incomplete, with the highest parts made of the newest materials.
The man throws open the doors. He shields his eyes, and turns to the boy. Bright green eyes look to him from under a mat of hair. The man picks him up and they gaze on the outside. Neither say a word.
The outside is barren, and wind tears at it like nails to the back of an old man. The will be no shelter there. Soft sand is the only interruption to the cruel granite that reaches upward. Claws of the Earth. The beast gave and took. But only a beast did.
With the burden of nothing on their backs, they leave. As frightful as the prisoners in the warm shadowy cave to the sun. When the man left, he turned to look at what he had done. If tears filled his eyes, they were dried by the red wind.
What he saw was malevolence incarnate. A symbol to all that he had endured and was to pass on. He hated it. And felt safe in the hatred.
But behind his back, a boy piled rocks.
-Eric Bracht
Mon Oct 20, 2014 3:59 am by oaklipalla
Subject: Traditionalism. 
