Age paints my dreams, age paints it black.
Hours drive me insane; it is the only distance that stands between me and my sanity. I’m afraid it passes quickly unnoticed, I’m afraid it does not pass at all. I’m shame. I’m hate. I’m pain. I’m the genes of my ancestors.
Charcoal -- a gray stroke on her white dress, In her eyes a ray of inward distress, On her face a brush, rough and smooth despair, In her hair a darkness, starless and bare.
Around her the street, a soiled, unclear hum, A chatter falling from clouds dead and numb To drown her in a dance, still on a chair, Views through the pane, a world she sets aflare.
Charcoal -- a gray stroke on her white dress,
ReplyDeleteIn her eyes a ray of inward distress,
On her face a brush, rough and smooth despair,
In her hair a darkness, starless and bare.
Around her the street, a soiled, unclear hum,
A chatter falling from clouds dead and numb
To drown her in a dance, still on a chair,
Views through the pane, a world she sets aflare.
Charcoal, her breath,
ReplyDeletea gray cloud on red lips, painting,
a hidden world, in colour...