There’s a grave in my pocket, a hole in my headPocket buries dreams, pride, and trust—While the hole swallows what cannot be named. I reach to remember—but then I forgetTrying triggers the shifting of colours,Spinning wheel—blurring, obscuring— What I saw, breathed, bled into the soil.It strikes between the lungs— Crimson rings my eyes—then burgundydrags mars…

There is a man who speaks for the dead,Who listed the threes of dread:Air, water, food—Miss one and you’re screwed,He’ll weigh you and measure your head. Nicky is a South African artist and writer whose work weaves together dark energy, human emotion, and the hidden threads that bind consciousness. A member of Mensa, she explores…