We grasp on to the poets, the artists, the musicians
All of the things soul-filled, raw and sincere
Because how comforting
Are the candid words etched by another tortured mind-
The words that dig deep beneath our bones
Or the transcendent threads stitched between melodies that remind us that
We are not crazy
And not alone.
Those who paint the light of hope into pictures of isolation
Reminding us that masterpieces are found often underneath
The ashes of failure
For a moment we believe maybe there are colours within us that truly are infinite
And at least-
Affirming the beauty in the heartbreakingly fragile, chaotic art of being human.
- bb