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(a breath)

(a safe space)

(a meeting place)

(a path)

It bruises the same.


No colour.

No prayer. 

No statement. 


Can save it. 


It fears.

It loves.

It craves.


The same.

Stories from heart.



With the smell of the past days. Musky scent of the dust. Moments when the glass case opens and presents collection of moth balls. Neatly tucked away in the attic of memory. 


I lift the lid carefully to collect the dust onto a white cotton fabric. It darkens fed by organic ink. As I move my hand along the patterns I remember stories. They lit within my heart with recognition. Response confused with the milky vail of non remembrance. I use my nail to scratch the surface. The sweat from my fingertips smudges the image. Yet it ignites something deeper.


I feel the warmth growing within my chest. The sound brings the vessels into live. Thumbing bass forms the roots and sends me into past. I can now recognise the sounds of the wet streets. Rain dives into the freshly formed puddles distorting reality. As the cars pass by new memory is forming. I can sense my face is damp. It collects between the folds of my life and gently trickles down.


The fabric is blurring with wetness. Particles float on the wet layer forming story I forgot.


And this one I let be...



Sacred space.


    The creation of the heart and hand is a thing to be loved

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