What Must Arise in the Wake of Pure Intent
Notty Bumbo, 2017
When the artist awakens from her nap,
The winds remain steady.
Herds of ibex raise their heads
To stare at the return of the Sun.
In a manner seemingly magic,
Though no new gods arise,
What was contain by their shadows
Remains feared by all.
What if instead, we were lifted further aloft
On the bleached canvas of time,
Where clouds the color of next century’s blood
Drift by the covered windows of failed tyrants?
The artist goes to her kitchen,
Fills her grandmother’s blue kettle with fresh tears,
Makes herself ready for another day of pain.
All the elements appear to align
With stars no one will ever see.
In this way, as her vision expands,
Even the Emperor must shudder in his dreams.