We make art with the life we’re given like wild roses growing beside the sea, finding purchase in the thin layer of consciousness, not primitive,

Like a stone in the shoe the wound does not heal ‘til what wounds is removed, the body revealing what the soul wants to speak;

How to push on from here, our map shredded, the pavement broken bearing no clue of the distant place our dreams foretold. The rivers rise,

Before the tide, the wind, the movement of the sea, there is the pulse that lives within the heartbeat, spread before us like pale green