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Is that me?
Two little palm-prints on the filthy, decayed window,
had me trapped inside the busted house:
rotting the road as a cancer,
blocking the natural flow of the evolution.
Breathing it’s dust, searching it’s past that makes me dizzy,
I’m falling among these sticky walls I’m trying to hold on to.
My hands are prodding into the scorching flashes,
and pain is all I see.
Music- soft, sipping from the time obscuring notion;
floating in a gentle dance with the calming light.
Ten little fingers softly tap two-colored sticks on the big piano.
“Maria”- Could that sounded better?- “Come and see…”-
Dimly echoed from a place I merged inside my veins,
so I can feel my body’s pulse projecting envy and revulsion,
the need to touch, to hug, to fondle. My mind is locked in disarray.
Is dark, in in disbelief, the window glass I’m holding.
Two little mud-prints on the polished stone-like pavement
are drifting me to run, to sprint myself to the end of air.
So, maybe then I’ll have me freed from my despair, from ever jolt.
Alternatives are never old. New wish to grant, someone to hold,
to spin the life bit out of gear, to soak in warmth of cozy home,
is why I’m here. But now- alone- I’m dashing out of past tense curse
of nonexistence, of fore steps. My palms I left within, so how am I
supposed to paint or write; to grasp, unfold out here?
