I am but a child of the New England woods, harpooned by right and etiquette, yet gentle, trusting in that same existence destined to extinction.
Flutes, mandolin and pipes sift on a dancing wind of brown autumn leaves swirling against double-paned doors of crystal glass lining the streets of Manhattan.
They slide in unison to reveal a cold, frosty night. Dogs, abandoned and wanton for a caress, their heads dragging low, roam the streets Uptown finding only a remnants of stale bread, left for the pigeons.
And in the deception of my tearoom surroundings and its searching conviction for normalcy, I yield to a room of dark emerald and bright red overtones.
Faces flushed with useless words and hands hung with lit cigarettes dapple the rich tapestry of colors. Tearoom reality betrays its own mystique. Lies are played across each table, each checkmate to gain one more move to power.
Philosophies and intellectualoids succumb to a flash or two from the other side. Edges of this illusion smolder ever more deeply with each fraudulent moment passing between couples. Hidden pains bleed more real.
Embroidered white linen tablecloths recall soft, casket lining – only a matter of time.
Outside the revolving doors, out of the tapestried cage full of artists, musicians and theatre-goers, the illusion becomes an element in its own powerplay; its philosophers abandoned, as dogs in the art.
It is the C note, struck high, as night closes its grasp, that guarantees entrance, not the colors, not the direction nor the man.