A loaded heart

A loaded hand.

And in it lies a blank story swimming through stars and galaxies

hurtling itself towards this very moment.


Today is like a song we’ve decided not to write,

for fear it might be too perfect,

or too imperfect.


Raw pink flesh guarded by bones with silent melodies only our ears are tuned in to hear.


Yet guarded.

Against the pains of yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows to come.


I’m no knight in shining armour,

nor do I possess the power or strength to break down your walls.

I quite like the architecture.

It bears years of attentive building, shaping, and molding.

One only gentle hands could dare to form.

Let your insecurities adorn the floors, and walls, and ceilings.


Art flourishes in the weird and bizarre.

And when your imperfect masterpiece is ready for its exhibition,

may your castle gates open to this humble artist,

looking for but one corner to sit and admire the sights,

till time dissolves,

and leaves the sky dark, and the stars loaded with blessings.



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