Acrylic and rose pigment on canvas
2026
40 x 40 cm.; 16 x 16 in.
–Hidden Beneath The Ivy–
I broke in places no one thought to see,
Like roots that died beneath a living tree.
The leaves stayed green a little longer still—
A beautiful disguise against the will.
The garden learned the language of neglect;
Each fallen branch became a new suspect.
The flowers kept their secrets in the ground,
Where every unanswered question still was found.
Anger grew like ivy over stone,
Convincing me that rage could stand alone.
It climbed the walls, it covered every door,
Until I couldn’t find myself anymore.
The shadows wrote in words I could not read,
Half-buried truths concealed beneath the weeds.
The darker every hidden sentence grew,
The more I feared the ones I knew were true.
I searched for someone else to bear the blame,
To carry all the ashes and the flame.
But grief is not a prison built by two;
It asks what kind of soul remains in you.
Then through the cracks where all my certainty bled,
A stubborn fern unfolded green instead.
It did not ask permission from the sky,
Nor question every reason it survived.
Perhaps all healing first appears this way—
A fragile thing beneath a world of gray.
Not loud enough to silence all the pain,
But brave enough to bloom despite the rain.
So let the forest keep what I have lost.
Let time erase the tally of the cost.
For even ruins, patient as they seem,
Are only gardens waiting to be seen.
Acrylic and rose pigment on canvas
2026
40 x 40 cm.; 16 x 16 in.
–Hidden Beneath The Ivy–
I broke in places no one thought to see,
Like roots that died beneath a living tree.
The leaves stayed green a little longer still—
A beautiful disguise against the will.
The garden learned the language of neglect;
Each fallen branch became a new suspect.
The flowers kept their secrets in the ground,
Where every unanswered question still was found.
Anger grew like ivy over stone,
Convincing me that rage could stand alone.
It climbed the walls, it covered every door,
Until I couldn’t find myself anymore.
The shadows wrote in words I could not read,
Half-buried truths concealed beneath the weeds.
The darker every hidden sentence grew,
The more I feared the ones I knew were true.
I searched for someone else to bear the blame,
To carry all the ashes and the flame.
But grief is not a prison built by two;
It asks what kind of soul remains in you.
Then through the cracks where all my certainty bled,
A stubborn fern unfolded green instead.
It did not ask permission from the sky,
Nor question every reason it survived.
Perhaps all healing first appears this way—
A fragile thing beneath a world of gray.
Not loud enough to silence all the pain,
But brave enough to bloom despite the rain.
So let the forest keep what I have lost.
Let time erase the tally of the cost.
For even ruins, patient as they seem,
Are only gardens waiting to be seen.
