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Not just frayed but edges pressed pulled away with time in pieces laid open. Broken bloodlines crushed still reaching for daylight heart in hand in love-seasoned life.
Photography courtesy of Guldman “TheGolden Hour” wordpress.com
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Empty places are not alone. They are not so quiet either- taunting and haunting thoughts in exploding fragments full of grace reforming time, taking nothing really into the soul and finding there a divine space. Like this: Like Loading...
The story deep in the marrow of my life betrays the simple touch of air to skin. Blood-spilt memories lay unheard, unknown but pulse with my breath and soul.
The stains of love and hate look the same in me and equally reflect the tragedy of my fears-
and I pray for reconciliation.
Photography courtesy of Ginny Hunt
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It’s a damning process storing every thought , worry tucked unfolded mostly so the space feels empty, sterile to the curious. No presence or joy broken soul alone though an open door of life nurtured love. No space for love or hate-tucked unfolded mostly, muted and muffled by an unnatural shhhh…
Photo by Steve Garrington
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To the point of exhaustion I fall out from light and conscience eye to face on wakening with monsters –the chase begins again. Like this: Like Loading...
What of the rage within that swells? – quiet then like a boom, you crash against the wall with words you knock another off their holy high and you fall and drown ego slammed against the shore shamed to be sand-covered soaked in humanity -quiet. photo courtesy of Kalani Cummins
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The space of day is broken, even the breath and thought of touch. How did I move into such pain? inbred the call, inside the frame the me I think I am, it grows…. the cancer, the shame. photography courtesy of Ériver Hijano
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What of the rage within that swells?
