• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 12


I walked into this gallery a week
ago; not as an art collector or
a storyteller but as an observer.
I came here to peek at the arts that were
born in brush and could not point Pastiche from
copies. Copies are spies, you know.
I heard the canard they create these days.
I sleepwalked my way around and still got

This began as a mistake.
The perfectly pointed feet in the air,
placed in the middle of nowhere, and
connected to nothing, cut through my eye.
I didn’t come to the gallery, to
correct hyperopia,
But I saw in blood without any blur.

I grabbed the feet and I felt her future,
With stories hidden in it;
She carries a lot of secrets in her shoes,
and not on her shoulders and
a part of her body is covered in
black for safekeeping.

Her music comes from the tattoo of the
world around her. This drives her to the floor,
where she dances in leggings without
unlocking a single rifle.
She is the one everyone is trying
to hold on to, though she holds on to no one.