Time to put words on the page. Fill up the space with twisted vines of thought. Reach out to the Universe and pluck red shifting galaxies. Release gases into withered lungs and plant trees on mars.
Are poets visionaries? or are the visions poetry? The poet sits on a tiny portion of the painting, gazing at the untouched palette.
I am an empty vessel, waiting to be filled. I am a universe within a universe. I am a sea of blossoming womb.
Paint, write, gaze.
1 comment:
You are the vessel made useful by the emptiness within.
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