The artist has gone to a space. To listen to her song stirs spirits. A man of virtue, a woman with pride, shall die in this song: Truth Is a Beautiful Thing.
Life feels both kempt & unkempt. In a brief time, one can fish out gems. In trying not to preach, art seems difficult. To hide treasure, suffusing life, giving it all one can.
With vatic scars, meaning prophetic scars, how to condemn a family to poverty? To say in explanation, something akin to, it means holiness.
In college, we were agog over Truth—ultimately flabbergasted by gratuitous evil. In meeting a few rich souls, one concludes, holiness is participatory.
The artist suggests a focal point could not carry her weight, her load, her truth. Many miles, through shames, a language hard to understand. And still, to take her place, to stand there, too difficult.
One gift for the focal point, to hide such a person, to hold one’s head.
Could one take her place? Truth is a beautiful thing. To close with aforementioned thoughts.
