
Soft clouds
Open up like wings
To wake up
The little houses
That are held
By the weave of the world.
It is time, they say,
To cross the bridge
Near the place
Where the sun ends the day
To a place
That you do not
Yet know.

Soft clouds
Open up like wings
To wake up
The little houses
That are held
By the weave of the world.
It is time, they say,
To cross the bridge
Near the place
Where the sun ends the day
To a place
That you do not
Yet know.

He has been caught in the tree
And his guts are spilling
He is a kite
That has gotten
Many messages
The tree is tearing him
Apart
He has lost his cord
His heart is bleeding
The sky has no more clouds
To cry for him
He will have to play
With what he has
He will have to build a collage.
And what
If he is out of
Glue?

There is an upper part
and a lower part
in the drawing
The clouds in the night sky
fly near the moon
then they freely go much farther
They are echoes
of the
no-sound
The earth is always hurrying somewhere
but this is truly
part of a bigger flow
The horizon is a line
that is
only in the mind
Is it all but
one big eye
looking?
Entries 1-58 show how I use the method of Intuition Through Art to heal myself from Peripheral Neuropathy.
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