Bücher von Oliver Moorhe

Decoherence: am I alive or dead without Her? Who am I without Her? My journey, my journey is such that the question drives me! Defines me! To what cross shall I bind my flesh to search, to seek? Will its weight push wearied foot into soil, on to sail to what horizon? My dusk, my dawn lit to illuminate this ragged, flawed child reaching for Her. Mother! Sometimes Mother, equally flawed. Neglectful. Angry. Distant. Hers is the distorted visage refracted from the mirror cracked by my own bloodied hand. It takes moments to realize the webbed image reflected is my own. Neglectful. Angry. Distant. Shamed. Child. Mother! She forgives.