The Girl who cried Wolfe
Artist | Professional | Traditional Art

United Kingdom

My musings are a chaotic mass of varied limbs and synaptic transmissions from star formations to grey matter and bony fingers, streams of consciousness from the confused and conflicted to euphoric realisations and the alchemy between, a pineal echo of music I can’t quite push to suicide from the tip of my tongue, my words turn to spider threads, vague and useless as meat.

Black hole dichotomies, gender binaries and aspects of human cognizance in perpetual meiosis, mycological organisms intertwine like yarn through the nest until yesterday means nothing, can you believe it, I am just an animal with an ego.

I'm floating downstream where the rapids crash and it's difficult to see, I catch glimpses of life like scenes in a film that that are as temporal as the breaths I strain to grasp, and sometimes when the waters calm, though the bank slips away from my fingertips I can still clasp flowers in the palms of my hands, keepsakes i wear as chains around my wrists, that tangle and choke with minutes of pearls i spew like swellings of stone, cradling my throat with listless crush, but though sometimes I grieve and fade I would not forsake this volatile womb for anything.

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