( Fine Art America.com ~ Anguish by Jennifer Walford ) The anguish in the children’s eyes brings me to trembling, a blue’s riff lingering too long in my hollowness like vanity. Like fatal weaponry pointed inward on the world’s kinship, honed in on my brethren of flesh and bone, my original family, like the coldness of death that’s come unattached from the spirit. They cannot know my belief. It’s hard enough to have my own these days with all belief colliding into the unknown, which has never been known, its been the bird singing at my feet, striding over the warble of what might be known, as far as knowing is even possible. Understand? As far as I am able to know anything, anything that’s been all around me since my beginning, it has also been outside of my frail human grasp. Truth is very elusive. Yes. Truth is also unknown, so it would stand to reason that it’s obscure. Yes. Nothing can be known that is unknowable and visa versa, in my flush of flesh, in my brittle
(The Weaver's Song)