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We’ve turned our aloneness into art.
We wake to the sunrise and let rays of light stroke our bodies like a paintbrush.
We take the confusion, the ecstasy, the sadness, the fullness, and
the blood that runs through our veins
and use it as ink
to splay thoughts on paper.
Our aloneness is art.
Each tear and each smile is a mural of blue and yellow.
Each footprint walking bravely, one after the other, is
a painting of resiliency.
Every conversation with God under the moonlight is
a poem of softness.
The laughter pouring through our lips is
a melody of the wisdom that lies innately within us.
Our aloneness is the art
that saves us
over and over,
and over again.
Our aloneness has arms that cradle us,
and hands that hold us
when we have fallen—naked on the linoleum floor
with nothing but our flesh, and
bones,
and beating hearts.
Our aloneness has angels that sing to us
as we fall to our knees.
Our aloneness is holy.
Our aloneness deserves worshipful praise.
Our aloneness
is art.
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