Goodmorning, Glory

Red, cascade, the brim of creativity, the spark. The intensification of the lion’s kill, the bullet’s first tear of tissue, the fury in a man’s eye when love is lost, or the blush on the cheek of an infant. Red bleeds us as much as it needs us, to have imperative existence. The peak of insanity, the drop of another body in the streets of my residency, the robbery down the street, or on Wall Street wait….too political.

Brown knows red, through favor and tongue, but we are red. Figures of paradoxical content, sinning to create a life of fiction to have realistic success. If it is not ordained, the red will rain, especially when painting your own canvas with black in mind. I write these songs from a pure place, a place of authenticity, but they seem to mirror words, I would love to tell another, usually the muse of the heartistic author. SOUL. dear, life.

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