The Painting
Why must we massacre all that is pure?
to love those who hurt us
and admire those who change us
but not for our good.
their icy blue winds blow forth
they are violent shakes of fear
for the hungry, the loved, and the children
of ourselves, stolen
in our nightgowns.
silence is harsh.
it penetrates through the psyche
twisting out the last era
of who we once became, some years ago.
craziness swells in the alley
grey and torturous it greets me, everyday,
help, find me an escape.
what is a thought?
creativity obscures and dilutes,
the mind is obsolete
the painting is finished.