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A Familiar Solitude, Acrylic and Oil on Canvas, 8′ x 12′, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Familiar Solitude

 

It is a familiar solitude

A time for whisperings

Her mouth forms a cry

An agony of existence, a lamp in the abyss

Life wrenched out of the murky chaos

 

Can she hear that her voice is smothered?

Her hand writes on the walls : death, life, tears

Her finger brushes it aside

Nothing shudders

Her mouth forms a whisper

 

Riparare la sua casa

Her house is in ruins

Her songs are silent

Her mind is cloistered

 

She follows a child who is thirsty, down winding streets

Her furrow deepens

Her mouth is dry

A mosaic of a childhood lost placed in a glass jar is carried through the streets

He is covered in mud

What door should she knock at?

 

The cowed guide her

Her ruined lover

Her lost childhood

Her severed hands

Her phantom limbs

Vesica Pisces

 

Under the ceiling of oblivion she enters a cave

She has pawned her last song

Her body in tatters

She tightens the noose of lonely solitudes

And remembers the silence of her squandered songs

 

Deep in the mud

Her hands, her holy sacredness plant a seed

A thick husk

Its lips in the earth

The blackness of the soil joining the threads of her hands

 

Terra sustenance : beauty, dark truth emerges

One in the darkness

Created in the blackness

The shine of the abyss

The space in which it stands

The destiny of the seed

 

She places her silver glove in butterfly wings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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