Art, at it’s core, is a way to communicate that which we are unable to express in any other way.
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Art, at it’s core, is a way to communicate that which we are unable to express in any other way.
I lost myself.
The question I return to
Who is living? Who is breathing at saturation max?
When you make peace with yourself
the world makes peace with you
For some
there is a person
without whom
the soul would have died
not in some dramatic way
no, the death of the soul is never a combustion
the death of the soul
is desiccating
bones
under
deserted skies
but you
you kiss my bones
breathe my bones alive
A rhythm
I return to
The beat of my heart
the first time I met myself
an acoustic bouquet
drifting through window screens
So you plant for forty years
So you break the ground and pivot in dust
and the seeds that you press, that you hope, will root down
they’re your hope
they’re your hope that you’ve found
So you plant for forty years
So you plant
So you plant for forty years
Tattered curtains aflame
and I, the broken sill
a scene to frame
white tipped waves crashed
unceremoniously
on unsuspecting shores
Your timbre was my refuge
A madness I could comprehend
A paracosm to explore
