There’s
silence, where grains blossom, the stems of our psyches. I see your image,
favored in rituals, to harvest a heartvolt. The texture is silence, for a vigil
gaze, that much a heartstem. Our souls entwine, to journey the vast horizon,
for more the distance. I see your image, found electric, to realize your
posture: the fragrance of emptiness, the fullness of atmospheres, the color of
impermanence. We chime in silence, to meet through images, the flavor of
fountains. Grace be with us; to live in essence, the patience of years that
churn; where beige is in-between, the thunder of a moment, to refocus
intensity. I see your image, strong and sullen, to knit into visions: the mind
of crochets, the grays of holding back, the wealth of this very vein. We treasure
the dying flesh, to catapult spirits, the deeds of too much pain. That word
moves us; to tiptoe fragments—of a world shedding leaves. I see your image, as
precious as newborns, as able as martial arts, as tender as the last kiss;
where pressure looms, to offset meditation, to finally find that space. The
heart is Elijah, even Thecla, searching for the faith of Jesus; where measures
are complex, the compassion of, Try
harder, a vessel climbing temptations. I see your image, stationed at a
table, mulling over documents; where a ceiling is leaking, a bucket is full, a
carpenter is on the roof. The kettle whistles, the stove is unlit, to realize
the kettle of minds. There’s a soul within, walking through chambers, pausing
our phantom hearts; in which the texture, the streams of images, to favor your
ritual. This is our painting; to scribble in spirit, alive through motivation;
where arts are heavy, to heal a heartsore, that close to needing prayer.
