We left a place behind to be here. And now, we walk the roads of obscurity. The streets before were far from lit; however, it was the best devil we knew. Lightning here strikes as though our eyes need it—because the following thunder isn’t the only thing we hear, nor feel rumble.
As above, so below.
Art here is freedom. And the allowance to produce it is better than the coins we exchanged for food. Demonic wiles are the catalyst, which acts as a reminder of where we once stood. We are not in heaven, this is no solace, and we don’t plan to be here long.
In our last dwelling, one breath seemed like an eternity—and there were millions of them. Today, those breaths are reflected within a blink of an eye. Clouds that light up are the source that compels us—my family, to move on.
Father, whose image was built on his creations during Yesteryear, can’t see the lightning but appreciates the clouds I sketch.