My art is equal to
cracks in reality
that I can
almost peer through.
Space and time
crack and shatter
with sparkling splinters
trying to force themselves
through.
Till they
pierce me
and puncture you.
I’m not as gifted
as I would like to be,
cause my language
does not fit perfectly.
It is mostly limited
by the limitation of me.
As the cracks widen
I can almost look in
and make out
a mirror dimension.
It is just an inkling,
art flowering
not yet infirmed
is interred
in my minds
frozen
mid explosion
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
My art is equal to
cracks in reality
that I can
almost peer through.
Space and time
crack and shatter
with sparkling splinters
trying to force themselves
through.
Till they
pierce me
and puncture you.
I’m not as gifted
as I would like to be,
cause my language
does not fit perfectly.
It is mostly limited
by the limitation of me.
As the cracks widen
I can almost look in
and make out
a mirror dimension.
It is just an inkling,
art flowering
not yet infirmed
is interred
in my minds
frozen
mid explosion
