In free form A raindrop wanders. Your buds unraveled Springtime
A tuft of hair Glides restlessly along An undulating chest Blue taffeta Tethered to your wrist Gently tightened
The shift is complete. Emotions have been shuffled Like spry billiard balls. There is no solace here; Just attempts to feel And exhaustion In the feeling.
Fleeting breaths Pulsating bosom adrift Silent corners
Nervous hands clasped Unto the jagged breasts of Salvation, But palpates nothing. I think, And I am not.
Little gnomes are aflutter, naked, And taunt the flightless beasts Who saunter along Pasturages unforgiving.
What does it mean To cry or want to cry When the spirit remains Immobile, Having exchanged its incandescence For intermittent songs Of dusk and smoke?
When a soiled fist emerges from the ground Scarred by his only savior? When a new day dawns and A gnome’s wing is shorn And divided into equal portions For beast and serpent alike, And the flightless gnome Begins to wonder, and worry
Until the hand begins to bloom And a ladle carrying my porous heart Is placed within reach Until your return?
Fill it with your hollow tears If you must. Drown it in all matter of Sublime remembrance Of a sun that wades along the precipice In search of a reason To console this grounded wretch Back to flight.
Devour the thorned rose of guilt Slowly. Recall the dance of the mountaintops When their skin began to peel on all sides Revealing compacted stacks of White heat, smooth and deadly to the touch, But enough to feel again, And become.
Art: “Paesaggio blu” Marc Chagall