Blasphemous Twaddle

jet.

another departure from here to anywhere else.

Blasphemous Twaddle

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wide open spaces.

I reside in this graveyard of longing… don’t pretend you don’t as well.

Jan Toorop painting

The foundation opens beneath my feet, to unearth the stench of  past. The repetitive thought movements of present crowd in to hail the release. The dim light of  my soon-enough proceed in steady pace. I stand on this bone yard, ash yard, past yard .

Blasphemous Twaddle

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cave eyed

who says the cthonic is at all times black, darkened, lightless?

if only i could touch my own soul…

(photographer unknown….)

Blasphemous Twaddle

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no-mad

We hold tightly to our nomad hearts.

I am prepared to strum whatever strings are put beneath my fingertips in hopes to feel that tremolo.  Crouched, curled, prepared to unfold a song….

painting by Gisela Verdessi

Blasphemous Twaddle

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head like a church lady’s crown

how the mind soars, inspired to many things, ever reaching air , calling it holy.

Blasphemous Twaddle

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