The Other.

I found myself killing more than I thought…

Killing the dove in the depths of my being… oh the innocence and naivety that once was. There is no longing for peace. No wishful thinking. No longer a sense of purity. There is none whatsoever.

As the dove falls into nothingness, it cried with tears of blood and anguish. With every last breath it flaps it’s wings in the hopes to fly up, but soon realises that it’s only prolonging its suffering and demise.

A shine of light slowly seeps in, feathers of dark tints of black, purple and blue boasts itself as it descends from above. A black bird that is often misunderstood and only associated with death and ill omen. But it is more than that, at least it is to me. It shows the magical entity of death; when one dies, another is born. And so change can happen once again.

But as the black bird descends towards the dove, it reaches towards it with its talons. Is it here to help? Or, Is it here to feed on its flesh?

Only time will tell.

“If you have read my New Years blog last year, you will know that 2019 wasn’t so good for me either. But as promised, I made the most out of 2020.

Today marks the first year after losing both my grandfathers, I wonder if they’d agree with me.

Anyway, here’s to 2021… a new year for a new me.”

  • Jatney

Categories: artwork, streets of milkTags: ,


perfecting the art of imperfection in the streets of milk.

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