Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Indifference of Expression

Tell your friends you’re a painter;

they’ll want to see your work.

I know you may not have the heart.

You were lovers in your lust and rage.

But you betrayed her by your silence,

while she broke you with untruths.

And you bailed up the reasons,

under heat of the sun; yellow

in fields of ochre colored angst,

you twisted like black crows

storming the canvas.

Tell them you’re a poet;

they’ll change the conversation,

not caring how poems grow

like ivy on your fences, probing

tiny cracks in the walls of conscience.

They are heedless of ebb tides

or swells from the moonrise

on shorelines of memory.

Maybe you’ll be forgiven

when you can write a poem

that smells like cerulean blue.

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