The many questions
Steam from the mind
of mine like vapor
out of boiling ***.
Dead you are,
answer to thy misery
i possess. In stroke
each commitment
yours resides.

Boredom and laziness, never
bothered to bother
you. Time is profound
mercy showing
you. In quiet silence
she seats waiting,
observing you paint.

Repayment of talents
you gather
is strictly expected.
Is assurance in your head
proud? Has the meaning
not found you yet?

Suicide is not tempting
you to lean
on her breast
anymore. How come
your art is floating
in nonsense? Look, see!?
Your own numbers
are tirelessly exhausted
by squeezed being
one by the other.

They shout
to stop painting
them.
Did your first
love plunged a sword
into innermost being
of thy heart?
The thought of God
is abandoning you wholly.

Is the rebellion
a cause
of succumbing
to a number
of four walls
stricken
by the splash
of blood paint color?