(Gunaars Miezis) All the way through to the trough of dust, all that moving color and flesh. Some bone, the color of rice, the same shade as the beam in a lover’s eyes. A young man, riding the streets of cardboard, bones and hands outstretched, looks for some balance to keep from falling off the ride. I pitch him some coins, a pittance- Damn it! Why do I even bother? The thinning man smiles and then I remember… © 2010 by mark prime Gunaars Miezis (artwork)
(The Weaver's Song)