Art, ascension, change, Death, life, Messages, musings, Poetry, rebirth, Revolution, spirituality


When change is upon the breast of the mantle.
When the change is so fierce.
New, bold, unknown, inhibited space.
There is no answer available.
A hot liquid honey pouring upon the body of self.
A numb body that won’t allow recognition.
A miracle right there before your eyes.
A wall that lives between the miracle and the eye.
A new layer of authenticity peaking through the blinds.
Swayed back and forth.
Be nice, smile, think of others, bypass your desires.
Roar, anger, wilderness, darkness, a mighty presence.
No more.
Good boy versus cave man.
A war within ones pores.
Thrust, throw, pull, dissect.
It’s ok they didn’t mean to hurt us.
Rip, tear, roar, thrust.
There’s no space left for masks.
Only one will remain.
In truth.
We wonder what truth looks like.
Yet throw it away.
Judging the other.
I’ll never be like that.
So easy to run, hide, reject.
Face to face.
There’s no room for clones.

Art + musings – Helen Rebecca Hart.

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