I am an artist who's fallen in love with the other side,
Who enjoys the numbers and digits
The way they sway and glide.
I can get caught up in all the pomp and ceremony,
Although none of it I at all believe in truly.
I have created in myself this strong twang.
An elastic glutinous force between my hands.
I have birthed a particular legacy,
A well designed force of pleasure and mercy.
I have become the kind of me
That swears with the cattle,
And soothingly shepard's the sheep.
Did I truly know it when I made this wish
That this creature I am is what I would eventually end up with?
I can and also cannot quite say.
I was so overwhelmed with desire and emptiness that this was the only way.
I feel so firm.
I feel so steady.
I am so balanced
So me incredibly.
Oh where is the little girl so convinced that she would be slaughtered in her sleep?
She is resting
She is dreaming
For the first time peacefully.
YOU ARE READING
M O S A I C
PoetryIt's called a crush for a reason. In the aftermath, you're left broken and scattered. Burning, vibrant colors without a gradient. Patterns without shape. But what do you become after you've been crushed? A Mosaic.
