Fire lights the sky.
Dirt, soft from burial.
No need to cleanse this new skin.
The eyes, they feel the same, though they are not.
Ever-changing shades, how different the scent.
Courses, taste bitter as usual.
Over consumption bleeds exhaustion,
Frailty and bruises sink, no room in the shallows,
My hangman, the Windsor, is calling.
Image: Alex Grey
That which you employ as a crutch is what has crippled you in the first place.
The only thing that makes me feel better is also my sickness. I must start to repair myself, before I break everyone else.
The veil hides your face, but your voice echoes through the leaves. You are my reason, my existence demands your presence. Yet, I cannot join you, as I am not my best self. I won’t burden your canyon stream with this energy, even if it’s the only way to heal me.
Image: Cheyenne Mountain – Roger Perales
No signs, no products, just time. Time conceded to demands. Precious moments, hijacked. An aftermath of unwished loneliness remains.
Image : Cameron Gray
Why does the empress lie in wait? Has our beloved mother forsaken us or taken a new lover? Her divine presence is required for the restoration of balance within the kingdom. Without her, all parishioners will perish.
Artist: Gilbert Williams
There are moments when I get the impression that my mind has been worked on or rewired so many times that it’s held together by gorilla glue, duct tape, and string. Perhaps that’s why occasional feelings of fragility exist accompanied by the sensation of unraveling or coming unglued.