these words fail
to capture any such real emotions
we talk and we talk, sure
but you can't feel my anger
frustration, my sadness
left to wonder
in a wander
through the maze that is the mind

with pen put to paper
the characters resemble more inkblots than letters

and so

yielding myself to the misery self-induced
that has, as of yet, only ate at the heels
my chrysalis burst
but no winged thing emerge 
only pus, bubbling out my pupa

manx-kronos-pragna

Flamenco Sketches

Green on green, the grub

eats its way to the calyx --


to change colour there.