Picture selection : /all
Dead Leafs and black Butterflies
Nothing ever really makes sense.
An assumption you get, watching the world pass by.
Like a crow sitting on a fence.
Limbs are sore, limbs are weak.
Like deadened leaden weights.
Shifting, shambling with great effort.
Moving with a clumsy gait.
Not here, nor there. Maybe beside myself, no?
No, no, no. The stabbing pain, that hollow deep well.
- this bodily experience, a feeling I know so well.
Not here then? So this is not real, yes?
Dissolving into dead leafs and black butterflies.
I am deceived by my own eyes.
But,I see, I feel. Washed out as they were.
Nevertheless the colours matched.
And yet, a screaming silence, a numb presence.
I am detached.