Art as religion.
Art as Prayer.
Laying on three rocks.
My left foot on the noose.
My right on the skull.
My back on the wood.
My friend the only friend layed below.
A beckon of red hanging from his throat.
Loyal and true he laid on small thorns.
Just another ripe vision of true.
A twisted repulsion to rearrange this off hue.
Each turning shadow replaced by her at once.
Lil witch with power summon defaults.
Make them special for others that are lost.
Take them in kindly, choose them full.
Give them violence, put them down on moss.
Slight adjustments of light are strong enough to confuse. Who follows who, paradox of the muse.
Set it balance, sphere and cube.
Step into the darkness.
Walk among elders, grab a limb. They swing you distances, as you loosen the leaves.
Failing to see how distances bleed.
Set it balance, puddle of gore and pile of ash.
On a high rise, looking down at her virtue and benevolence, remembers the frost.
Memories of canopy high, bare feet on moss.
Forgetting the chaos, stepping ahead, circuits converging we are all lost.
Set it balanced, flesh and mind.
That hazy air that finds you on an off day, that's where I laid.
A faithful friend he will follow me as far as any liquid end.
With his beacon of love he’ll help me up.
No fear is pending.
Vacuum of light where no one began.