There’s a grave in my pocket, a hole in my head
Pocket buries dreams, pride, and trust—
While the hole swallows what cannot be named.
I reach to remember—but then I forget
Trying 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 burgundy
drags mars black behind.
I wake crying, cradling myself like a baby,
Whispering there now, shhhh—
As another missile explodes
Closer this time.
By Nicky O'Connell
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 patterns in art, language, and the cosmos, creating stories and poems that trace the liminal spaces between humanity and machine. Her paintings and writing share a single voice—intuitive, atmospheric, and shaped by wonder. She uses AI ethically as a muse and conversational partner, while every story and idea remains wholly her own.
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