this creative sea you, me, us a cavalcade of pronouns dead tigers swimming and spinning through cascades of metaphor and simile maldefined.
so sick of seeking truth a battle poorly placed awkward timing skinny lines of belief, disbelief and nonparticipation waiting for clarity in the waves of obscurity.
“as you know, we’ll never know and blindly ford the river of paint horse hair in hand to an actualized bank.” scoffs, she does, and moves face and nose to her art up for air, and down again actualizing the truth that was never there, always.