being a heārtist
an ārrow strikes me and my heārt is bleeding, I touch an artifact that has long gone.
this is the time before times, and the whispers of the wind pounds roughly the silent story of my brushstrokes.
I carefully picked a teardrop from the skies and bury it deep inside mother earth’s crying eyes, which now are moistening the arid lands of the eternal desert.
I’m located somewhere between no-where and nowhere and I dive deep into the golden sands through earth’s core, then I’m flushed back to the exact meeting point of a canvas and my beloved “don panello” which is my trustworthy brush.
I am transmuting myself to become like a clear rock that is able to break the light of the sun into spectacular rainbows of art.
I am a heārtist, a wandering soul.
I came to that present clearly to become a whole.