Death of a Female Saint


Death of a Female Saint


Death of a Female Saint


Oil on Acrylic


The more she tries the less she has. With every effort she reaps failure and scorn.


With every Hang in there and I got this lie, sickness and disease.

Every thing she did was wrong. The Memes, motivational speakers and Life Coaches mocked her with false promises of a better Life. A fantasy Life only attained in hallucinations.

With every Victory or so called success pieces of her are lost buried in forgotten graves.

Resilience and resources long spent and exhausted. She raised her arms towards Heaven.


Believe only half of what you see and None of what you hear.

Phyllis Hyman


Abstract Decompression 


Abstract Decompression 

She was an untidy yet well mannered mannequins dream of a rambling bustling bristling garden of thorns.

A compatriot of Busker Boodle and his Traveling Henchmen. 

Their house no stranger to death was at times covered in covert convert blood. 

Theda the Bohemian Brahmin interjected regularly. 
The span betwixt life and death is millimeter slim.

Scattered explosions rocketed sanguine limbs and rotting corpses skyward. Mere Treacle. 

Cabana Havana Heart