fink ployd
i am the fire of flowers their fragile anatomy yet i scatter sweetness in the air even for the one who plucks me i watch the world like a bird i fly with the clouds i watch old men fishing on the pier i become the fish caught on their lines and rejoice when i escape the sea if im night i love the sun if im morning i long for the stars If im bukowski i love my father if im camus i carry sisyphus on my back and sometimes i think of myself as a painting a loneliness brushed with van gogh’s yellows a face hidden in monet’s fog a heart borrowed from klimt’s gold i don’t know which one i belong to maybe im the unfinished stroke standing between them all not the kind that waits to be completed but the kind left incomplete so no one can alter it for every time i feel close to becoming whole i erase myself and paint again the same body with a different soul
