You read my scribbled lines that spill across stained notebooks. I have forgotten the dull fear I had before you. Before sharing the pocket worlds that live within the galaxy of my mind.

There is no resplendent mirage of my art for your eyes. You see the fragments that require varnish for the public. You’ve heard a thousand rants of twisted heroes and wayward lives. Of curious fears and the quietest dreams.

There is a wild heart racing— each beat a stallion hoof upon the open plains. There is freedom in the finite. Hope within the falling leafs of autumn.

I sit at a dark, wooden desk. My hands trailing over the braided edges. A robin’s egg sky lays beyond it. The vast of night further still.