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Joana.
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Seeing it now as hands clasp
To soggy tatters of some old newspaper
The melting words of some familiar stranger
That I had so longed wished to be my own
The dried acrylic colour crimson
Has now become plastic bloodness
Lies upon my autumnal place
As water drops inevitably from the ceiling
Trying to accept the choice I have made
Clenching fists at my haunting thoughts
Fighting despair as the meaning flees
And sense can be seen trotting from a distance
Parading like a madman
Arms waving up in the air
Stick tongue out
Mock the sanity
My own choice
From a million other paths
I have chosen the torment
One that does not relieve
One that could never appease
Though impetus is far from its ground
I had fooled myself
Thinking it would escort me to you
But instead I sit here on my own
Wondering if the paint of my blood
Will mix with your now melting words
If somehow they could catch my sense
And lock it away
Holding on to the sanity it insistently mocks
Does it need me to act like this?
Is it me who controls?
Is it me who submits?
The drops of water have metamorphosed
And showers of languid essence
Degrade the words
And the plastic crimson liquidities
Blending together they form blood
And as the showers abate
I kneel and press my hand against the new matter
And rest my face to it
Like the life that has ceased passing through my veins.
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