Stone Cold

I wrote a poem about this one.

The dread of being alive sank heavy and cold in her cavity
shoved next to a pile of hot damp optimism,
pulled from the boiling river.
“Must I “? she said wearily, as she hung her her spirit up on the rack for the night,
wondering - just for a breath - whether it would still be there in the morning.

Mixed media on paper

(2019)

40 x 50 cm

Framed

SOLD