It is they whom tell me how to paint my pictures, and they whom tell me how to dance, that are the ones I can no longer dance nor paint pictures for. To them I am nothing, and to those with their grace let me be, I am everything.
People will take a preconceived notion and wildly bludgeon a thing of beauty to death with it. Worst of all is the insidious righteousness instilled within the perpetrator of such blind acts that inevitably seep into folk around them like a poison that pushes all things different and strange deeper into the woods.
Not everything that disappears into the woods ever comes back. Yet sometimes they do, and in great number.
Oh for the lonely, lost and traumatised souls that wander through these gates.
All of the broken things that the comfortable, complacent and cold society hates.
Were my hands as big as my heart I could scoop them up and carry them away.
Long and far from here, to a new world and a bright and clear day.
Leaving the woes along the road side like rocks useless and unwanted from the pack.
Embracing all the things that this comfortable, cold, and complacent society does lack.
