My passion grew
unknowingly
with thorns
outside eyes view.

Shadows,
with no known source of light
left more questions
than admittable answers.
Watching microwave numbers
countdown to zero,
acknowledging time passes
is a privilege in concept.
Teased with control,
long abandoned
when the hands unfroze.

The light in the lack,
brought beauty in darkness.
Distinguishable cracks
left the skin long dry.
Misrepresentation
of false interpretations,
throws the starving artist
through fires to rust.

Answer to no one.

And answer to all.

There are systems in place.
And a spark caught
while I tried to warm the stove

The subtle thorns cut deep
while colors bled true.
Reducing humanity
to historical whispers,
while straining an ear
through present silence.

Hoping for any audible sound
that could clear my conscience.

For any audible sound
to prove I am not wrong.

Because binary art destroys heads long before torn apart.

PF