It was not intended to be a joke, but his ramblings were not to be believed. Ramblings that had lost him his wife, son, home and now, almost certainly, his life.
Cold was the water they had pushed in front of him, unpalatable as the grey, dirty rain thudding silently against the bulletproof glass that kept the truth from their ears. He sipped at the re-cycled muck, trying to move the stone that was once again lodged in his chest. Would these people never realise the fatality of ignorance?
"And the trees are telling you this?" sneered a Savile Row pinstripe.
He studied their mean suits and their lying faces, wondering where they kept the velvet blindfolds. Even today they still gave reverent service to the lip, candyfloss words that satisfied the dim, and calmed the bleeding hearted. No one wanted truth to be served on a cold plate.
The rain never stopped now. A constant, miserable echo of life unsupported. As the world came undone, he had fled. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the man-made holocaust that now squatted on a surprised world . The music had stopped, but for three years he had nurtured these last remaining trees, appointing himself shepherd to a flock whose feet were already beset by the rot of humanity.
Now the earth was audibly crying, a last lament for stupidity, tears for wanton disregard. He picked up his instrument for one last sonata.
(Photo art by ParkeHarrison)