petty change glittering in the velvet lining
of your instrument casket--
you, slapping the end of your monogrammed pen
against a maze of scribbled diagnoses and
arched eyebrows--
you, charcoal in hand, setting fire to a
canvas, black embers settling on your
skin, cool and white--
you there, perched on a thundercloud,
spitting lightning and brushing the finger of sin,
knowing--
can anyone make sense of it
?
No comments:
Post a Comment