Digital drawing · poetry

Pwm 2a.z1

Set me a sight where I am given,

a love of feathered wings of weather.

Where weather were not of my choosing,

yet again I was placed on a rock where life became,

chore and stress were nothing to me as episodic dream.

To know my own

I’d understand now why thing’s

have to be a way,

of nothing.

Only which I know if only I can accept every,

failure needs to love its own ground to walk on,

not rebounding;

not correcting;

only to apply the life of a festering wound that can shine.



®artsydhude 7-18


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