For a moment I’m somewhere else; the rest falls away. To unwind, this place is my mind’s gathering. I enjoy the silence more; everything goes away. It’s not the paintings I end up looking at; it’s myself. Like mirrors, I think where I should go. If I could, I’d walk through the paintings. Take me distant far from here, away from the rest of society into thy own. For a split second, mine eyes were slow but gazed short the passing of time. Then I wander through the halls, and then I’m away from all.

But ere the resting place my hand is worked through touching and heating, a bitter thought passes and I shriek in absence of feeling. Why do I look back in the past and scorn? Then I think through the weaves I web myself; a stain so harsh that not even fire can erase. A mould as I am no life can never grow. A thought as I am, and then the world is amiss the skies are barely born.

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Prose, Works
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