Morning appears in its blemished robe. Gaping at sun to unleash history untold. Bleeding questions from the ink of Horizon. Beseeching gods to protect her uncouth son; From the devils hiding beneath her Flawed skin- As she toys phantasmal dreams in shades of pink
Her skinny hands tied up with boundless secrets. Of an island marooned and it's nightly keepers. Yet, she rushes towards a future incongruent Like dew spreading its legs on the windowpane A morning, like many mornings refuse to settle. Her life replete with a child and a chisel.
painting-Amrita Shergill its degeneration- shewolf