Men in dark times

I've been journeying through a strange land recently. It is a landscape populated by dilapidated old farmhouses and strange monuments reaped from metal. The sculptures creak and whine under their own weight, and as the wind blows through them you get an idea of what it is the creators were trying to accomplish. If you walk by the houses at night, you could swear the creaking of the cracked-plank porches really is the remnants of a simple folk song, meticulously played, but no less natural for it.

You can see the short of it in the listening list on the right. tldr; a lot of indie music.

It's given me a new appreciation for Subtle, why they're doing different things, what they're trying to accomplish. I'm getting an education in experimentalism, in minimalism, in stuffing-the-room-full-of-instruments-ism. It has been interesting.

Anyways, poem. This one's titled Winter Sonnet. It was the last of the 'rebel sonnets' that I wrote about a month ago.


Winter
days
defeat
me.
Too
short
for
true
living.