An excerpt from the accompanying poem .:
The very fabric of my being unwinds the spreading threads of my soul shine a light known only as reflection. Knots that never were untie themselves endlessly, they are the roots of this tree. A fertile death encases them, a writhing transmutation of tired old flesh, heavy with experience, happy to be sadly sunken to the bottom of the pile. A grimacing smile. My face is contorted in a beautiful agony. It is a mask of light milked by shadowy fingers. I understand Gargoyles. I am wrathful deities of fire frozen as sculpture. I am an electric spider with needle-fine feet teasing apart the Celtic knot of my deoxyribonucleic heart. I am rapt in the rainbow roots of the sacred tree, staring upwards with damp eyes, solemnly. Perceiving the great trunk that turns in magnificent melancholy, the perfect pace of a body in space. This graceful column of great strength, this twilight length. This holy night, naked before the billion eyes of the stars in its sky. Stars which are light penetrating the dark density of its fractal canopy – spaces in space. The Whirling-World-Tree-Wheel we all huddle under. Its tips loop back to its roots. We are all on the floor of the same roof. We are angelic clouds of exploding stars spiralling black-hole tears through supple veins in the puzzle-solving muscles of the same giant face, each wrinkle a river of infinite expressions in the time of space it takes to see a vision of The World Tree . . .