I find the work, both sculpture and writing, to be utterly devoid of even a hint of soul, and very dark. Cancerous cells spreading. No joy. If this is a field of dream, it is a nightmare.
Poetry, it is not. The shapeless forms holding sisters and baskets, etc., are places I hope we do not visit. There is no mystery there. It is faceless darkness and pain.
There is no voyage here, nor any attempt to make one. Put your egos aside.
I should have added that had I not done soul-less work myself at various times, I would not have written so bluntly about yours.