The world must seem
From such great heights
Incessant like worker ants and bees
Trivial as a circus with sound muted
Just as you please. They call you
Princess and you gather your whims
in your arms like thin, tight wool to be
spun by somebody else’s wrinkled hands;
Illusions will not warm you; The stars
will blink your wan face away.
Tell me, what good is your gold,
glittering and garish in the clouds?
this drawing fits perfect to my art jam topic of this month! If you want to participate please send me the thumbnail (thumb number at the area of "sare") to my journaL! thanks!!!!!!!!!!!!