Work by Author.
My lady's tomb is living amongst us.
It stirs, with the consistency of a mirage from under our we tongues.
As she begins to speak: the sun and its radiance merge effervescently.
and
In the darkened house of architects who believe in progress
In the darkened heart of artists who believe in reason
my lady is never to be found.
When the dead return home to drowse.
They return to where the body, the earth, and their simultaneous decomposition, are all pigments on a circular canvas:
And the spirit maintains its flux and its effects.
A contradiction between a crown and its construction.
A vapor full of alchemy.
A gust of wind that drifts across a drying puddle, at irregular intervals.
