My hands grow tired trying to hold onto sleep— gripping fragments of tension while my thoughts drift too deep to be attentive, to pay attention to what the world calls worthy.
I swim in the farthest corners of thought—beyond my depths— yet I never run out of breath. There’s freedom in this dive, in expressing all I feel. This pen is the extension of my soul’s most honest reach.
Above a mantelpiece, I search for a worth I could call my dear—starstruck like a deer beneath hunting lights. And though *******, the trophy hunter loves the chase more than the prize. That, too, is a kind of art.
By genuine reflection, I still call myself an artist— one still learning the form, still finding the lines between vision and mastery. The lessons are never done.
What I hold in my hand feels like something from a Divine hand— a gift placed gently by a hand not my own.
Art is adamant progress: unyielding, sacred, slow— but still, I move.