I try to justify my “artistic ways,” by crediting something esoteric, something that is bigger than the ordinary, a truth that needs to be shared because it is important. The fact is that the truth that I share, is only interpreted by me, sometimes others can catch a sense of what I am saying, but usually, only I can read the entrails.
The day is warm, I am hot
The forest smells of musty heat.
My mother and my grandmother’s
Are on my mind,
As I near their ages of passing.
I watch myself Toddling,
I feel hot and sweaty
It turns out I am the only one who can understand the meaning is me. it is not a script to be read nor a hieroglyph to decipher, it’s something else.
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