Jungle of Letters in the Forest of the Broken

The saving power of the leather bound letters stepped into my dark empty spaces. The jungle was stirring from infinite beginnings. How marvelous the etched speech is to the surrendered ear of the listener. Pages don’t just sprout legs; they sprint into the fog of war. The hymns not only hum to themselves, but scream forward to the bystander. Upon remembrance of the first song, an earsplitting epidemic floods the memory. The forest with its black leather bindings that had once stabbed fear into my heart was much more long-suffering than the description I had anointed it with. Pathetic endeavors to describe the all knowing were made pitifully, I possessed less than the ability needed to fasten my own socks. This dwelling place was alive with unforeseen beauty and enigma. Who better to be my tour guide than the protector and watcher of the jungle? His ferocity, potency, and love surpassed any knowledge I deemed indispensable. All genius believed to be reserved vaulted within my intelligence instantaneously become as useful as a shoebox filled with broken pencils. How golden and sweet smelling was the aroma of His mane. His eyes pierced my soul with a javelin. His love and compassion consumed my inflexibility, renovating me such as the searing celestial power of the sun does to a snowman at point blank range. I am forever eaten up and lost by this jungle. I couldn’t be more powerlessly in love. The choice to step out of this jungle back into the metropolis of hate and filth sickens my spirit. The prior home I thought to have possessed makes vomiting eternally seem like a delight. Roommates inhabited my soul and dragged me aimlessly on a leash. They caused me to lie in a bed breathed in flames, but no longer. I now lay my head in leaves of truth and tranquility. I’m hidden forever in safety under the shadow of the wings of the keeper. This jungle is the only factual sanctuary I could ever hope to value. The letters I witness here swing from branch to branch producing much fruit from the vine they all derive from. The fluctuation between the branches causes them to rejoice at the presence of the watcher. A kingdom enraptured in being lost to the intellect. What a freedom to never find anything capable of the mind. A renewal obtained from settling in the refuge of leaves and singing. A look into the future reveals only a smile more superior than imagination can succumb to. The stream channeling through the core of the undergrowth and irrigated unto every deposit of life maintains its rebirth in full. The urban population frequently and vastly attempts to wage war with the jungle to bring it to demise. The sight of it makes tears engulf the face of my soul. The keeper opens His maw but once and the armies dispel to ash. The spectacle of consumed devastation lay before my eyes in the form of smoldering machines of war. Efforts made to flee the capital establishment are almost immediately murdered on spot. The running sons and daughters approaching the tree haven of freedom to live anew are hastily and precisely shot at by the destroyer of hearts who is the ruler and overseer of the city gates. Watching from the jungle my love has been captured by, the few who endure the fired rounds and sprint into salvation had never been happier than upon arrival. A realm of day and night joy that never ceases greets them. These pages reach out with the hands of the architect of souls to receive the somnolent and beaten hearts. The progression from a letter to word is the flight through the jungle. The conversion of words into song becomes the keepers dealing. Pages of perfect syntax and composition were spoken to the blankness on a purposeful whim. Tens of thousands of verses and letters and words prove an immense definition of love. The pages are the jungle. The words are His voice. Lettering divinely inspired for the sake of a sheep that is all too willing to be slain in a demonic alleyway. The watchers voice in the form of paper screams into every residence, passage, and dark place of the city to accept the free access to His jungle. Become defeated and collapse into salvation. Never stifle the yearning of the soul to write the ascending reply poem to the letter made for the broken.

Jungle of Letters in the Forest of the Broken

Garrett Hanson

Merritt Island, United States

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Artist's Description

Chase the deemed unattainable. Conquer the impossible. Fulfill the true purpose of creation. Don’t be fooled. Embrace truth in fulness.

Artwork Comments

  • Donna19
  • Garrett Hanson
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