Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
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Between the cradling in the chest, shortened in the living space where we crawl through personal deserts, we are fine,
left alongside the jagged mirror that is faltered behind.
Utmost intrusions collect dust, species collide on the inside,
willowing bust in the mother’s chest, the place of oscillation and comfort,
making bread into the churning, butter, nut butter,
left over species, instinctual fossils that draw attention to the viewer; she is here.
Illusions inside the ghost closest to the rear wall,
petrified of missing one’s own laughter,
conclusions are debated among strangers; the brewing chess of inner minds,
hollowed into a fascination of the self, a wicked undercover.
Rations of collection plates are tiny yet satiating,
intrusions into the winter’s eye, dry and cold like the missing summer.
It is I that needs an attunement, and adjustment of sorts,
the making of sensations underneath the camera speaks volumes ,for we are the camera, and we are the voyeur and the spectacle,
we are by far the crossing river inside that bleeds, as if it was ‘that’ time.
The jar among the pennies inside the collective dust,
the majors in the minors, playing pretty penny with the challenging quotient, going nowhere today in the implication of subjectivity tomorrow,‘ somewhere’ is the destination that is privy to abbreviation.
The majority of a lifetime is in the receiving, allocated giving in having a bundle of fortune awaiting at your door,
conclusions into the after world pierce the bubble,
universal; truths alike.
Anna Rozwadowska 2022