the heārtist

the heārtist

an arrow strikes me, my heārt is bleeding, I touch an artifact that was long gone.

the time is before times, and the whispers of the wind pounding the story of my brushstrokes, I pick a tear drop from the skies and bury it deep inside mother earth’s crying eyes which moisten the arid lands somewhere between no-where and nowhere.

I dive deep into the golden sand thru earth's core and back to the exact meeting point of a canvas and “don panelo” my brush, I am transmuting myself to become a clear rock that is breaking the light of the sun into spectacular rainbows of art.

I am a heārtist, a wondering soul, I came to that present, to become a whole.

Leave a comment