Theres thoughts speculating amongst the mist in foreign air, for his world resides in a blood torn base of the tragedies our hearts will not warm up to. His pain scalps the brisk hairs that stand on edge, as lead is sprayed or simply delivered. Symbolic bodies of those recognisable, somewhat collapse and wreathe with blood orange spills, lapsing on the cold pavement where the unconscious ramble off…dazzled. Like the floating lead becomes the lost souls of a momentous promise, our hate mail is delivered in subtle but gentler doses. He, a cringe that ran for the 40 hours of hope in resemblance of a better life in the darkness, prosperous he still waits. Waits, and waits….for the fallen tears kissing the cheeks to drop like the loved ones on the same cold walkways every year in memory. An icon of sorrow is the hidden gem of a friend who painstakingly shared his story. Perhaps the hidden gems are prophets in life’s mystery, or rise into the warmth of an everyday presence. For this, I will leave you with a question…Is your gem warm or torn?