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