Pilgrim Walk

by: Martha Kinkade

Curious, how an exhibition leads to a barren violence. Wombs turn violet with yesterday. Hands walk with the enormity of god. With ease, my tongue shocks with the first breath. I exist in dense stillness. My day starts with Baroque emptiness. I stretch my imagined menagerie into pools of lust. Darkening—pitch black. When no light penetrates, divinity begins.