By Matthew W.F. Senior
Where the rain hits the sun, fragments of colour, trapped and suspended - once apart - now merge and blend,
becoming translucent and unified.
Floating on air, like a bohemian waxwing on dextromethorphan, the rain bows down to me, and comfortingly whispers:
“I forgive you” - in it’s suffocating neglect, hollow and tired, her colours spill across the monolithic grey, clawing and wrapping around primal shapes to form a new, visceral beauty...
and that, is where we are.
This was written whilst visualising the EP "what dreams are made of".