Welcome to "surreal"
AFTER THE PARADE
It's dark along the avenue. Thunder mumbles in the clouds.
Wind blows city residue, left by the vanished crowds.
Canyons of the city brood, as cold invades the warm.
Lightning and its drums intrude, advancing with the storm.
Festivities are over. The parade has passed away.
The joyous crowd has scattered. Lone wanderers remain.
Traffic lights flash faithfully, though few the cars that pass.
The city's growing empty of audience and cast.
Still there's a haunting music, a ghost of fading song,
as if the wind confuses, and sound still lingers on,
like a time-warped stranger, drifting down the street,
who senses mystic changes, where crossed dimensions meet.
Festivities are over. Yet moving through the air,
in the aura of a cold wind, we're swept away somewhere,
where parades become Processions, beyond the realm of time,
and Timelessness possesses the country of the mind.
(©-1997-"Future Folk" Music-Betty Curtis)