Draped, splattered on a canvas
that stretches over bones—
Let's see what life you can make of it,
This framed temple you call home.
These rough edges strike you
Awakening their shapes steadily,
Just living lines on road maps that will never,
Ever lead you back to me.
For you are a transformed artist, a pale-skinned army
Composed of a thousand lies,
A self-proclaimed angry bird,
Red like a sick horizon.
With uneven flow, your hesitant hands
Trembled all through the night,
Just to burn it in morning, even though
You worked so hard to get the lighting right.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
Draped, splattered on a canvas
that stretches over bones—
Let's see what life you can make of it,
This framed temple you call home.
These rough edges strike you
Awakening their shapes steadily,
Just living lines on road maps that will never,
Ever lead you back to me.
For you are a transformed artist, a pale-skinned army
Composed of a thousand lies,
A self-proclaimed angry bird,
Red like a sick horizon.
With uneven flow, your hesitant hands
Trembled all through the night,
Just to burn it in morning, even though
You worked so hard to get the lighting right.
