Art suggests a fragility that it is too vulnerable in the world. But it is precisely that backhanded compliment to explain wonder in the unassuming mundane.

Sharing poems & thoughts, one redacted word at a time.
Art suggests a fragility that it is too vulnerable in the world. But it is precisely that backhanded compliment to explain wonder in the unassuming mundane.
I am a wild mass of hair lost in the world.
We drift in eternal space. A slow progression, a ghostly limbo. Light and darkness over water.
The world whispers truth. Hear the buried treasures, of tales in hushed voices and allow the voices in the ether to be heeded.
This insatiable curiosity I have is a rambling one.
The world could be so wild. No buildings. Just the sprawling world in the depths of the woods, wind, and grass.
Have an incredible lust for life: a heart beating a new beginning. Open your eyes, the world is out there.
We consume, corrupt, destroy - earth is no longer of use; it is a grave.
The trouble was the yearning in wanderlust.
I am a wandering soul with unfathomable melancholia.