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greenwoodsPoems
And in a sense A kind of visual art addiction In still life The arrangement of flowers - It is as though I am already mourning Those who I grieve for As they continue to use. It’s like a funeral bouquet Mourning the dead. Not already dead, But on the verge with each Staggered Breath. Each breath impeded By Heavy blood Thick veins Thick with the stuff And I am powerless But to sit and observe. Someone once told me: “The average life-span of a ****** is five years”. As I walk through Kings Cross see them nodding off I wonder - Are they an anomaly of survival? And when I see those close to me They’ll lie just a little Eyes wide shut I turn to the paint The ugly art I make Try to make some peace within it.
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Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 4:51 AM UTC
Day of Mourning
And in a sense A kind of visual art addiction In still life The arrangement of flowers - It is as though I am already mourning Those who I grieve for As they continue to use. It’s like a funeral bouquet Mourning the dead. Not already dead, But on the verge with each Staggered Breath. Each breath impeded By Heavy blood Thick veins Thick with the stuff And I am powerless But to sit and observe. Someone once told me: “The average life-span of a ****** is five years”. As I walk through Kings Cross see them nodding off I wonder - Are they an anomaly of survival? And when I see those close to me They’ll lie just a little Eyes wide shut I turn to the paint The ugly art I make Try to make some peace within it.
greenwoods
Written by
greenwoods
21/F
Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 4:51 AM UTC
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