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Description
A little while ago I gave a picture to a friend as a gift and apparently his mother went nuts over it, so I decided to make one for her too. I asked what she likes and he said "angels. She loves angels." and so here we are. It's being printed right now and we're gonna go pick up a frame for it. Best part is she has no idea it's coming She's a wonderful woman and she deserves a wonderful gift.

I called it Child of Dust because it reminds me of Thrice's "Child of Dust" song and how peaceful and humbling it is to me. Here's the lyrics for anyone who's curious:

Dear prodigal you are my son and I
Supplied you not your spirit, but your shape.
All Eden's wealth arrayed before your eyes,
I fathomed not you wanted to escape.

And though I only ever gave you love,
Like every child you've chosen to rebel.
Uprooted flowers and filled the holes with blood,
Ask not for whom they toll, the solemn bells.

A child of dust, to mother now return,
For every seed must die before it grows.
And though above the world may toil and turn,
No prying spades will find you here below.

Now safe beneath their wisdom and their feet
Here I will teach you truly how to sleep.

Description
A little while ago I gave a picture to a friend as a gift and apparently his mother went nuts over it, so I decided to make one for her too. I asked what she likes and he said "angels. She loves angels." and so here we are. It's being printed right now and we're gonna go pick up a frame for it. Best part is she has no idea it's coming She's a wonderful woman and she deserves a wonderful gift.

I called it Child of Dust because it reminds me of Thrice's "Child of Dust" song and how peaceful and humbling it is to me. Here's the lyrics for anyone who's curious:

Dear prodigal you are my son and I
Supplied you not your spirit, but your shape.
All Eden's wealth arrayed before your eyes,
I fathomed not you wanted to escape.

And though I only ever gave you love,
Like every child you've chosen to rebel.
Uprooted flowers and filled the holes with blood,
Ask not for whom they toll, the solemn bells.

A child of dust, to mother now return,
For every seed must die before it grows.
And though above the world may toil and turn,
No prying spades will find you here below.

Now safe beneath their wisdom and their feet
Here I will teach you truly how to sleep.