The Flower of Void
Every so often, it visits me. A cold needle breaks through. Ripped apart tightly stretched cloth of my heart — white.
A gap into the dark void blooms like a flower — black.
My mind is like a drunken bee wonders in its bosom. Aimlessly. Yet free.
Soon it comes back with the pollen of inspiration. I am ready to produce sweet art. Inspired. It all gets divided into combs — some…