Finger Painted

What is home?
How can I miss something that definition evades?
There is a place in my soul that I yearn for,
A location so deep, a womb of restoration.

Yet lamentations for companionship tear my breast.
Protected from danger,
Harbored from experience.
Who can match me in my world of infinites?

I breathe in an eon of Grey.
And exhale, neo-chromatic fractals
that pierce my veil of reality.
What tastes and textures pulsate outside?
I beg that they touch the tip of my tongue,
Caressing my skin with thrilling tendrils.

My art is not muscis nor painting or singing.
I am the scribe of the collective knowledge.
Finger painting in words….
Cryptographic clouds.
When the soul is ready to evolve,
The work can be deciphered.

Let my depictions inspire the world.
I am afraid to believe that I am iconic.
I don’t see myself in such a light.
But the Spirit demands that I speak now,
or forever hold my Peace.

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