CRY MY HEART oil on panel 20in. x 20in. ±50.8cm. x 50.8cm. ARTIST'S WRITING CLOSER DETAILS
CRY MY HEART Deafening is not knowing the secrets in the fog Untold and full of grey Your emblems, mementos, your veiled souls of yesterday I slant your portrait starry, your spirits unportrayed You're no making of another No maiden made of clay Brushed beneath your bare flesh, clouds ripple from within Hidden, this pulse, it beats below your skin Covered by your kindness I hear a memory's hymn A voice of winter's wind that whispers faraway Of children's far off echoes as they scream and play A ring of crickets crossing a grass covered lay Of laughter in the treetops The wet cruel ravel of weeps along the way Your selfhood saves the page of a wordless former day Your stories, your histories, Your ashes still alive Both joys and sins denied, slowed seasons simplified The beasts they wake again, hostile, towards me Yet softly set aside I fear them now and then, as you guard my glassy pride What's in the book you read? What's in the youth you hide? "Nothing," you say, "there's nothing worth the tide. My heart is cut in two. There's then, there's now, and there's only me and you. The quietness you sense is a poison's residue. Benign by our held hands. A blur in our love's view." "This book, this page—this page I save reads true. But the words, to me, the words are nothing new. Each page is precious years. Each letter, etched, forever through and through. Rest, my dear, grow old within my heart, for there's only me and you. There's only me and you."