Tuesday, 31 March 2015

art of pain

Your sadness is not sacred
that it may be pimped is no secret

It is iron to be manipulated
you must silver plate it

See how it inclines,
points to a goldmine

It is top soil in spring
whose crop nourished by tears

It is cattle waiting in the abattoir
It is cash in a clenched claw

It is raw
potential
festering
leaking
releasing spores

It is a deep well
to draw from at will
imperishable,
it is many, many things

except sacred.

No comments:

Post a Comment